


Alistair's Story

by ahlewis32



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahlewis32/pseuds/ahlewis32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What makes a man like Alistair? My version of Alistair's life before the Grey Wardens from his birth to the moment he meets the Warden at Ostagar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Burden

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No Price Too High](https://archiveofourown.org/works/340180) by [retln8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/retln8/pseuds/retln8). 
  * Inspired by [No Price Too High](https://archiveofourown.org/works/340180) by [retln8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/retln8/pseuds/retln8). 



> I often wonder what it would take to make a man as honorable and good as Alistair. It's a quality we don't see enough in our world. Staying as close to lore as I could, I tried to create my version of his life before he meets the Warden.br />  
> NOTE: The Warden, Isabeaux is taken from my good friend retln8's story No Price Too High available here in the Archive.

##  **An** Unexpected Burden

 

“I can’t raise him,” she had said quietly.

Maric looked down on the bundle in his arms, wondering at the immensity of what she had asked of him. To find a safe place for him was the least of the problems that he would have to consider. Who, how, and where?

The child stirred in his sleep and made quiet mewling noises. Something inside of Maric told him that it would soon be feeding time. The first obstacle to be faced.

“He…he is nursed?” he asked Duncan.

“Yes, he is. Fiona handled the matter herself though. We shall have to find a wet nurse and soon,” was the reply.

Maric handed the baby to Duncan who began to slowly jog him up and down in his arms in a soothing yet somehow much-practiced manner.

Maric smiled at the big warrior’s prowess, “Not the first time you’ve done that, I see,” was the remark.

Duncan gave the king a small but understanding smile and nodded, “I am the eldest of eight children, your majesty. Not the first time indeed.” Both men laughed quietly at this so as not to disturb the subject of their discourse.

Maric walked to a nearby table and rang the small bell that sat on it. A nervous and tired-looking elven servant entered the room and bowed.

“What can I do for your majesty?” he said.

“I have a task for you that will require the utmost secrecy. Who do you recommend among the castle staff? “was the request.

“I would be happy to take care of the matter myself, sire. On matters secret, I am most experienced.” His utterance caught Maric by surprise but he kept his composure.

Maric raised himself up to his full height and marshaled all his kingly power while addressing the elf, “I am need of a woman who can act as wet nurse for this child and I will need her quickly. He will soon be hungry. I do not care who she is but that she be clean and discreet. No one can know that the child is here.”

“I believe I know of such a woman within the household, your majesty. She recently gave birth and has no trouble with the nursing. Does it matter that she is an elf?” asked the servant tentatively.

The king considered this for a moment and replied, “No, I don’t suppose it does if the milk is good. Have her brought immediately.” He turned to walk back across the room to where Duncan stood, rocking the child.The servant bowed and turned to leave when Maric suddenly called out to him, “What is your name ser?”

The elf stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face his king, a moderately frightened look on his face, “I am called Falan, your majesty. I am assigned to the general household staff, night duty. Before that I was a messenger for Teryn Loghain’s steward but an unfortunate incident made me unfit to continue serving him in that capacity.”

“And just what was that unfortunate incident, ser?” asked Maric.

“I refused to deliver a message on the steward’s behalf, sire.”

Maric’s curiosity deepened, “Why? What did it contain?” 

Falan was over-hesitant so Maric repeated the question again.After a few moments, he replied, “It was an invitation to the Antivan Crows, your majesty. A job offer.”

“Who was the target?” Maric’s question was demanding.

“You sire,” was the quiet answer. 

“I see. Thank you for your honesty, Falan. Please see to my request.” With that response the elf turned and nearly ran from the room, leaving Maric and Duncan alone with the child.

Maric returned to Duncan’s side and looked down at his sleeping son. He noticed a shiny object caught in the folds of the swaddling cloth. Carefully he pulled the item out to discover it was an amulet of Andraste. The same one he remembered Fiona wearing in the Deep Roads. Running his fingers along the carved surface, he thought fondly of the woman who had given this to her son and then given him up. He replaced it as carefully as he had removed it; the child would need it more.

The mewling noises were becoming louder as the child began to rouse from sleep. Maric stroked the baby’s hair with an uncharacteristic tenderness, thinking suddenly of Rowan and how she would do the same for Cailan as a babe. Some wounds could not be healed.

Duncan looked at the king and admired his tact and deportment during this time. He had learned during their time together that while a he was a kind and pleasant man, Maric was also moody and often what Duncan considered heartsick. He had not had a joyful life and was not happy in his duties as king of Ferelden, but he performed those duties nevertheless, with skill and without much complaint. He was a man who knew who and what he was.

Moments later, the door to the room opened and Falan entered with a young elven woman who carried a small bundle with her. He approached the king and bowed, motioning for the girl to come forward where she curtsied before Maric. 

“Your majesty, may I present Terena,” Falan announced.

Maric looked at the girl and noticed the bundle she carried with her was a child, not much older than his son. “You have milk, girl?” he asked.

Terena stuttered her reply, “Y…yes, your majesty, enough to spare. Shall I feed him now?”

“Of course,” said Maric, “First things first.”

Terena handed her child to Falan and walked to where Duncan stood. He handed her the child and led her to a nearby chair where she sat and began to prepare herself. Duncan, aware of her insecurity in a room full of men turned the chair away from the group to allow for some privacy.

“Thank you ser,” she said quietly and began her duty.

The others retreated to the opposite side of the room to converse away from the girl. 

“Who is she to you?” Maric asked the elf.

“My only daughter, sire. Her husband is a bowman with the Teryn’s armies. He is away on a mission,” Falan said.

“I cannot stress enough the delicacy of this matter, Falan. The child’s very existence must be kept secret for his own safety if nothing else. I will hold you personally responsible if I find that you have deceived me in this,” Maric imparted. His gaze turned toward the girl sitting with his son. “I would not like to see others pay for your actions.”

Falan’s face grew very pale and his already large eyes grew larger and he nodded in agreement. Clearly the entire situation terrified him, just as Maric hoped it would. Terrified men were cooperative men, a lesson he knew too well.

“I understand your majesty well. I shall consider this a blood oath, and will not violate those terms,” was the reply.

“Agreed. I shall need you to see to the child’s welfare for a few days. Duncan, have the girl, Terena, taken somewhere for safekeeping. Any suggestions?”

Duncan thought a moment, “He is the son of a Warden; we shall insure his safety at our compound. That way he does not have to leave the security of the palace grounds.” 

Maric nodded at the suggestion, “Excellent. Make up whatever story is convenient to explain their presence. Falan, your daughter will accompany Duncan and the child to the Grey Warden compound.”

Falan shifted his grandchild to his other shoulder and faced his king, “What of her own child, sire?”

“Her child may accompany her.In the meantime, where shall we send him?He must go where he can live a good life with a family. I’ll not see him become a chantry charge.”

“Perhaps in the Bannorn, sire. There, many lords will do this service for you or would be honored to,” suggested Duncan.

“Yes, and hold it over my head every chance they got too,” Maric mused. “It must be someone who has something to lose or gain that will override any thoughts of using the child against me. That person would have the child’s welfare at heart as well as their own.”

“It sounds as if you have someone in mind, your majesty,” Duncan said.

Maric suddenly grew quiet and looked over to where Terena was finishing up with his son. ‘The right person,’ he thought and began to pace back and forth pensively.He stopped and turned to the two men standing a short distance away. The look on his face spoke volumes as he regarded them.

“I know just the man,” was all he said. 

And the wheel turned.

  
  


 


	2. An Offer He Can't REfuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

An Offer He Can’t Refuse

Duncan pulled up on the reins and the wagon slowed to a standstill. They had been traveling for four days in rain and muck and were well past the point of exhaustion. Up ahead was the town of Lothering where he hoped they could get rooms to allow them a chance to rest and clean up before continuing the journey. Redcliffe was only a day’s journey away but the children were cranky and wet and neither he nor Falan were capable of seeing to all their needs, try as they might.  
The girl, Terena, was competent in her care of both boys. They were fed well and always clean. She was often heard singing pretty elven melodies to them as they jolted along in the wagon. The tunes were pleasant and he enjoyed them as the wagon jolted along and had even joined in on those he knew. Duncan was impressed with both her and Falan’s interest in the welfare of their main charge. He had come to realize that their interest was more than just the result of the King’s threat. They had come to care for the child as one of their own even though they had no idea how close to the truth that really was.   
As if a sign from the Maker himself, just as they entered Lothering, the sky finally cleared and a warming sun appeared from out behind the ominous clouds overhead. After asking at the Chantry, Duncan drove the wagon to a nearby tavern and inn and paid for two rooms for the party. He settled Terena and the children there and set Falan to watch over them while he attended to some business in the town. They were low on a few supplies, especially swaddling clothes, and he needed to ask around for any news that might be of interest.  
In the tavern downstairs, Duncan paid for meals to be sent to Falan and Terena and sat down to enjoy a bowl of fresh stew, bread and ale. It was the best he’d had since Denerim and he finished it in no time. The buxom barmaid was an eager sort with a low-cut dress and a kind smile. She made sure his glass was never empty.  
“What brings you to Lothering, ser?” she asked curiously.   
Duncan could see no reason to lie to the girl, so he didn’t, “I am journeying to Redcliffe.”  
“Not the best weather for a visit unless you’re already there,” she replied with a sultry and suggestive tone, smiling and moving closer to him. Apparently pouring ale wasn’t all she was good at.  
Duncan found himself falling for her lines, but duty was more powerful than his urges, “I would agree, my dear, but some things cannot be put off, wouldn’t you agree? Unfortunately that does include my business. Perhaps we can converse…later?”   
“Oh, of course, ser. I’ll look forward to it. If you need anything, ask for Abby,” with that she ran one hand across his shoulders, leaning into to him as she filled his cup with the other.   
“Thank you for your kindness, Abby,” said Duncan graciously as he thought, ‘No, pouring ale wasn’t all she was good at.’  
With the stew finished and his manhood flattered, Duncan left the tavern and headed for the market. There he found some heavy cotton and woolen cloth, the herbs that Terena had requested and a small bag of finely milled oats. The cotton and wool were for the needed swaddling clothes, while the herbs and oats were for ointments and food for the children. He quizzed the merchants about any news they might have had on their travels, but none could provide any that he didn’t already know. He pondered the outcome of his inquiries and decided that indeed, no news was good news in Lothering.  
Returning to the tavern, he avoided the tavern wench, Abby, difficult as it was, and went upstairs to the rooms he’d hired. Falan was sitting outside the door to Terena’s room, mending the wagon harness that had broken that morning.  
“The babes are asleep so I told Terena to lie down too. She is so tired. Taking care of one infant is enough, but two is exhausting,” he informed.  
Duncan sat down on the bench next to the older man. He was tall for an elf, with deep blue eyes and the greying hair of late middle age. A devoted father and grandfather too from all Duncan had observed in the last month.  
“How long have you been in service to the King?” he asked.  
Falan stopped his work and looked at Duncan, a wary look in his eyes, “I have served his majesty for nearly 10 years, ser. I came into his service when I revealed to the Teryn the plot to kill the King. In return for my information and assistance, I was given a position within the household and I have held it ever since.”  
“An honorable deed. I will inform his majesty of your fine service to him during this time. Your faith and loyalty will be rewarded, I assure you, as will the loyalty and kindness of your daughter,” Duncan reassured.  
Falan met Duncan’s eyes, his own full of relief, “The King is an honorable man and even though he may have threatened my daughter, I know from experience that he would not have harmed her, though he said he would. He is in power, and power will make a man say things to get his way even though he does not mean them.”  
“I am relieved you think so,” said Duncan, “He is a good man.”  
“I have always thought so,” replied the elf who turned back to his work.  
*****  
Morning came early for the group. The young ones awoke in the early dawn, both screaming with insistence. Falan had roused earlier to prepare the wagon and finish mending the broken harness, which left Duncan alone with Terena and the children. Many of the inn’s other guests began to holler their complaints with the racket so Duncan got up and dressed, then quietly knocked on Terena’s door and announced himself. “Come in, ser, she called.  
“Both at once, eh?” remarked Duncan as he observed her trying to feed one child and calm the other without much success. He reached over and took the screaming elven babe from its mother and she began to feed the young prince. He walked the child up and down, jogging him as he walked, a calming and insistent motion that worked well.  
“This is not the first time you have done that, is it, ser?” Terena remarked sheepishly.  
Duncan looked over at her as she nursed the babe, “No, it isn’t,” he said.  
She smiled a half smile, “I didn’t think so. You seem too familiar with the motions and too comfortable.”  
“I grew up in a large family. There was always a little one needing soothing.”  
“You would have made a fine father. I can tell,” she replied, smiling again.  
“I’ll never know,” was all he could say.  
The young prince had finished his early morning meal and had fallen back to sleep so Terena cleaned and changed him and laid him in the dresser drawer she had fashioned into a cradle. She took her own son and put him to breast while Duncan took his leave. “You are a good mother and a good woman,” he said to her, “your husband is a fortunate man.  
“Thank you,” she said quietly as he shut the door.  
*****  
Falan arrived an hour or so later to find two well-fed, sleeping infants, a still tired but more alert mother, and a busy Grey Warden. Duncan had packed all of their things, and had had a hot meal sent up from the kitchens for breakfast. The morning was cold, he said, and if the children were to eat well, then the mother should too. Falan smiled at this large man’s concern over such small things, a great man he was and would be he thought.   
Together, the two men packed the wagon and pulled the canvas sheeting over the top bow struts to keep the sun off the children as they rode, and then set off on the last leg of their journey. The sun was bright and the road was drying, a condition that Falan remarked must have been set in their favor. “An advantageous day indeed for such a task as theirs,” he said.  
Duncan had long since stopped worrying about whether Falan knew who the young human babe was. He had become convinced that the elder man had determined who he was but also would keep the child’s secret, fearing for his daughter if nothing else. But the man had admitted that he never actually thought the King would make good on the threat, a fact that Duncan knew to be true. Maric was many things, but a killer of innocents he was not. It remained to be seen what would become of the two elves and their babe, though. The dangers of their knowledge could put them in harm’s way, something Duncan did not want to see happen to them as he had become fond of the three of them over last weeks. He made a mental note to see they were cared for, perhaps with the Wardens.  
The hours passed quickly on this last day of travel. The sun grew warm at midday so Duncan turned the wagon off into a small grove of trees for their meal and to allow them a chance to stretch. They chatted happily at the meal, talking of their families, the weather, and other ordinary subjects until it was time to resume their trek. Duncan couldn’t help but look back at the pleasant grove and reflect on their brief time there. It was a happy moment and there were few enough of those for him now.  
It was closing in on eventide when the ramparts of Redcliffe Castle came into view in the distance. Terena exclaimed at their size and Falan remarked on their impressiveness. “A man who can rule over such a place would surely have room for the little one,” he said. Duncan hoped it would be so. Maric had given him two letters, one of introduction, containing the request he made of the Arl and what the task would entail; the other was to be held in case the initial answer was no. It contained a more strongly-worded message that could not be ignored and must be accepted. Duncan prayed it would not come to that, but the Arl was a reasonable man.  
Darkness was beginning to fall as they pulled up to the castle gates where Duncan handed the reins to Falan to hold and jumped down to converse with the guard in charge. He identified himself as a Grey Warden and asks that a message be sent to the Arl on his behalf. Recognizing the man from his previous visits, the sergeant agreed to deliver the message and had a servant boy escort them to the hall where they could get some refreshments. Duncan made sure Terena would have a place to feed the children if necessary.  
A few minutes later, a young soldier came to fetch Duncan and take him to see the Arl. He motioned for Falan and Terena to follow him but had them wait in the hallway while he went inside to speak privately with the Arl. “Do not worry,” he reassured them and left.  
Eamon, Arl of Redcliffe was a large man, his strength evident in the muscles that rippled under his fine tunic. Years of fighting the Orlesians during and after the war had honed him into a well-proportioned, fit warrior. Duncan knew from experience how true that was. Yet, despite his outward appearance, Eamon was a kind man, intelligent and caring, shrewd and canny, wanting only the best for his people, whether they were from Redcliffe, Ferelden, or Thedas as a whole.  
“Duncan! What mischief brings you to Redcliffe?” he crossed the room to the Grey Warden and embraced him in a friendly and familiar hug. “It’s been a long time.”  
“Too long, your grace. I wish it were not business that brings me to you now,” Duncan answered as he untangled himself from Eamon’s embrace. “A mission for the King.”  
Eamon smiled at that, “And what does my brother-in-law want from me that requires you to come in his stead?” he asked warily.  
With that, Duncan crossed the room and opened the study door. The guards who stood outside snapped to attention and he motioned Falan to enter with the young prince. Eamon’s face went blank as he observed this, then his eyes opened wider. “What is…this?” he asked tentatively.  
Duncan faced the Arl and introduced the newest guests, “Your grace, may I introduce Falan, a retainer in Maric’s household, his daughter, Terena, is outside with her young son. And this, your grace, is the newest prince of Ferelden.”  
The silence in the room became overwhelming as Eamon simply stared at the party, not sure what or what not to say. Off all the things that Maric could have done, this was the one thing he dreaded most and had never had to deal with, yet. The implications of Duncan’s utterance swam in his head like a million tiny fishes and not a single thought could he utter.  
Moments seemed like days as Duncan and Falan waited for Eamon to speak. When speech finally did come the first thing heard was: “I have no words.”  
Duncan fought the smile rising as he looked at his old friend. As humorous as the situation was at the time, it was also deadly serious and Eamon must know of Maric’s wishes. “This letter should explain what this is about,” and he handed the scroll to the Arl.  
Eamon realized that he had to sit down as his knees were becoming too weak from the tension. He sat down at his desk and unrolled the scroll, reading it over and over until he was satisfied he understood what it said. The young prince stirred in Falan’s arms and began to cry softly and root against Falan’s chest. “Ser Duncan may I?” he asked.  
“Of course. The child is hungry, your grace, is there a place?” The blank look had fallen over Eamon’s face again but he quickly recovered.   
“Oh. Just bring her in and set her in the corner there. No need broadcasting this any more than we already have,” he said resignedly, gesturing to his left.  
Duncan walked to the door, the guards snapped annoyingly to attention and he motioned Terena to enter. He pointed to the corner that Eamon had indicated and took her child from her so she could take the other. She walked quietly over to the corner bench and began her duties. Duncan passed her son off to a waiting Falan then looked at the Arl and said, “Terena, your grace.”  
The Arl was roused from his reverie to acknowledge Duncan’s statement, “My pleasure,” he said.  
A few moments went by as Eamon continued to sit and contemplate the situation at hand. Duncan saw all the many emotions fly through Eamon’s eyes and began to be concerned. What was he thinking? What next?  
For his part, Eamon was taking it well, he thought. The only thing worse would be that the child was his, although he had worked hard to keep that from happening. Would that Teagan could be so discreet, he mused. But that was for another time, another conversation. Right now it was Maric’s indiscretion he must deal with, not his or his brother’s.  
A strange thought entered his brain and he couldn’t help but utter it out loud, “What is his name?”  
Duncan smiled slightly at the question, “His mother never told me. She called him A'maelamin, My Beloved. It was her wish that his father name him, but he has not. I suppose that is for you to decide.”  
“I see. Well, that should not be difficult,” Eamon replied. Duncan could see the change in the man after that exchange. The old familiar wheels were turning now and in a positive direction. He patted the pocket where the second letter hid. Perhaps it would not be necessary to show him.  
“What are the terms?” the Arl asked already knowing.  
“You take the child in, treat him well, see him educated and trained, and prepared for the life of a nobleman. He is to be kept from court and from any other nobles outside of your household. No one is to know his identity outside of Maric, you, me and these two elves. When the time comes, Maric plans to announce his identity and give him a place in the royal household. Until then, he is in your protection,” Duncan answered.   
With that utterance, Eamon’s plan formulated. An unknown prince, a lump of clay to shape into a fine leader. He would keep the boy, train him, and make him the leader his father wasn’t and his brother couldn’t be. And if Maric’s promises were legitimate, it wouldn’t do him any harm either, more power in the Landsmeet and perhaps another title or two to go along with it. Not a bad prospect if it could be pulled off.   
“Very well. It seems I have little choice in the matter. What explanation am I to give my people to explain the lad’s presence?” he asked Duncan.   
“The king suggested he be put forth as a foundling, perhaps a child whose mother recently died.”   
Eamon thought a moment then faced Duncan with his response, “One of the kitchen girls lies ill of an infection from a difficult birth. The child was early, but does not thrive and will surely die. Perhaps he will make a startling recovery. I will find another to nurse to care for him in the aftermath.” He paused. “We should think of a name.”  
Having never called the boy anything but ‘the babe’ Duncan was unsure what to reply, “It should be a worthy name, one of importance.”  
The Arl paced about the room when his eyes rested on a book sitting alone on a shelf. He picked it up and opened it to the inside cover. It was a common history book, the story of Calenhad, first king of Ferelden. It had always been his favorite and when his childhood tutor and he had finally parted for the last time, the man had presented it to him as a gift. Inside was the inscription, ‘To my best pupil: Let the lessons of time always be your guide. May the Maker watch over you and yours, Brother Alistair of Starkhaven.’  
“He shall be called Alistair. It means ‘defender of the people.’ A fine name for a lad, don’t you think?” asked Eamon.  
Duncan smiled, “Better than fine, your grace. He will make his mark in the world with such a name. The King will make resources available to you to accomplish this task, of course.”   
Eamon turned back to Duncan, “Of course. I would expect nothing else.” He hesitated before asking the next, “What if I had refused?” he asked.  
“Then I would have had to give you this, your grace,” and Duncan pulled the second letter from his pocket and handed it to Eamon. There was no reason he couldn’t see it now.  
The Arl read through the contents with no expression on his face. “So that’s where Teagan is,” was his only comment.  
“Yes, your grace. He will be released when I return to Denerim. You have my word.”  
Eamon crumpled up the letter, walked to fire and tossed it in, watching it until it was completely consumed. Then he turned and quietly walked over to where Terena sat holding Alistair and humming softly. She looked up at the Arl and stopped, waiting for him.   
He smiled at the young girl, “Don’t stop, he likes it, and so do I. My own nurse sang such songs to me long ago.” Terena smiled back and began humming again.  
“He looks so like Maric and Cailan. It will be hard to hide but it can be done, with care,” uttered Eamon, not taking his eyes off the child in the girl’s arms.  
“Can you stay for a few days while I put things in order for him?” he asked Duncan, “The girl will be needed until I can find another.” He looked at Terena, “You look so tired; I will assign a girl to help you care for the children so that you can rest.”  
“Oh! Thank you ser! You are so kind,” was all she could muster.  
“We both thank you, your grace,” said Falan who had been silent, holding his grandson in the opposite corner from Terena.  
Eamon smiled at that, “You are both very welcome and will be rewarded for your kind service to the lad. You have my promise.”  
“Thank you again, your grace,” exclaimed Falan.  
The Arl crossed the room to his desk and picked up a small bell and rang it. One of the guards entered and saluted him. To him Eamon said, “Show these good people to the guest chambers, they are to be treated well and with the honor they deserve as my guests. Find a girl to help the young woman with her charges.” The guard saluted the Arl, nodded, looked at the elves and said to them, “Come with me, please.” Quietly they left with him, leaving Duncan and Eamon alone.   
“This could all blow up in my face like a Qunari cannon, you know,” said Eamon sarcastically.  
“Dangerous, yes, but don’t the benefits outweigh those concerns, your grace?” asked Duncan.  
“For now, they do.”  
And the wheel turned again.  
 


	3. Caring for Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

****Caring for Alistair

****

“I hate him!” she screamed. “All he ever does is poop, eat, and sleep! You don’t even care about me!

The target of the young girl’s abuse turned to face her daughter, “Goldanna! You know that’s not true! He’s your brother!” 

“No he’s not. He’s the son of the Arl. I hear the talk too! My brother died,” the last was spoken with some grief, though whether real or pretend, her mother couldn’t tell.

Helen looked at her daughter with regret. Years of being an only child had spoiled her into thinking she was the only important thing in the household. Her father hadn’t helped when he would go off to Denerim with the Arl and come back with expensive gifts for Goldanna and herself. Gifts that had had to be sold once Edgar died of the fever. It also didn’t help matters when shortly after that she had discovered she was pregnant. She was sick for months, and when the babe came he was sickly and didn’t thrive. That was when the Grey Warden came. Care for this child and all your needs will be seen to. Everyone is to think your child lived and he is that child. She agreed to his request as it was a way out for her. The problem had always been Goldanna.

A precocious, quick-witted girl, Goldanna had a way of getting what she wanted even when force was necessary. Helen sometimes thought she should have had the girl trained as a warrior since she had a warrior’s countenance. But, Goldanna wasn’t the sort to get dirty, just fight dirty. A sorry thing to think of your twelve-year-old daughter, but there it was. 

“You should be minding your own business and not listening to idle gossip,” Helen scolded. “Did you get that package I told you to fetch from the kitchens?”

Goldanna glared at Helen, “Not yet. I was going to go look at the new ribbons they got in at the store.”

“You don’t need any more ribbons and I need that package, it has herbs for the baby in it.”

“Baby, baby, baby! Always him!” and with that Goldanna ran out the door leaving Helen staring after her. 

‘I guess I’ll have to go myself,’ she thought. ‘Perhaps after Alistair wakes up. He could use the air.’Alistair had been listless and cranky lately and Helen was concerned. She had thought to take him up to the castle to see the mage healer but had been putting it off.Perhaps now was the time. She might talk to him about herself as she had not been feeling well either.

In the nearly two years since Alistair’s arrival at Redcliffe, his life had been the same as any other child. Eamon had placed him with Helen to cover his identity and so far it had worked. No one had suspected that the happy blond toddler with the hazel eyes wasn’t Helen’s child. Fortunately, she and Goldanna were both blond although with blue eyes. Edgar had had hazel eyes so it was the perfect cover.

Helen didn’t know who Alistair really was; she was only told that he was the son of a powerful man who was unable to care for him himself. She accepted this and decided that the burden of the child was worth the effort and had come to genuinely love him. He was so precious with his ever-present smile and happy laugh. She always looked forward to seeing him every day and missed him when he was asleep. She often wished Goldanna had been this way but never had been. That thought too, always hurt. 

It had been Helen’s idea to dedicate Alistair in the Chantry. While not a promise of service, it served as a naming ceremony and time of celebration of new life. The Arl had been kind enough to arrange it for her and had even attended. When the time came to announce the boy’s name, the Arl announced his name was to be Alistair  A'maelamin, which he explained meant ‘beloved defender of the people.’ The Revered Mother had not approved of the name but allowed it nonetheless for its meaning and for the tithes she received from the Arl each month. The Arl presented Helen with gifts for the children and for herself and told her to let him know if she ever needed anything. She thanked him and wondered at the powers that would make a man such as the Arl. If Alistair was half the man, she would be happy.

Helen’s reverie was interrupted by a small cry from the nearby crib. Alistair was awake, though he still looked tired and was more than cranky. ‘That’s it,’ she thought, ‘To the mage we go,’ and began to change and dress him for the walk up the road. Goldanna was no doubt in the store so they could pick her up along the way and pacify her with some candy for the trip to the castle.

She picked up the sleepy toddler and felt his forehead with a kiss, “Come along sweetie, come to Mama,” she crooned. “All will be well,” and began to dress him.

*******

“They are seriously ill, my lord,” said the grey haired mage. “I’m doing all I can but I have no way of knowing if it is enough. I am sorry.”

Eamon regarded the mage with trepidation, Timon was an honest man, trustworthy, and someone he would place himself in the care of and had many times. But he wasn’t the patient, the child was and something had to be done. 

“What are the alternatives?” he asked, knowing what they were.

“The fever can be left unchecked in the hope it will abate by itself. I can keep on with the current treatments in hope they will do more good, or we could see if there are any others who might know what could be done,” was the answer. “The Circle is only a day by boat, I think they will last that long,”

The Arl felt powerless and ineffective. The arrangement was working and now the boy was in danger of dying from a simple fever. Helen had done all she could, but when the lad wasn’t responding and she felt ill herself she had come to the castle to see Timon. She might be dead already if a merchant traveling the path from the castle hadn’t seen her lying unconscious by the side of the road with her idiot daughter sitting next to her bawling her head off. He had brought the woman and the child to the gates where the men at arms had taken her into the house. Even then it was days before he was notified and by then it was probably too late for Helen. She was too far gone for much hope.

But Alistair still managed to hold on to the little thread of life he still had. Eamon had to admire the lad, such a strong will, like his father. He often reminded Eamon of his own sister, Rowan, Cailan’s mother, who’d had that same strength of will in the face of adversity. His heart ached at the thought of her. The boy was the focus now, make the mother comfortable, but save the boy. He rang for his steward. “Send for my fastest messenger,” he told the man and sat down to write.

******

Three days later, Alistair still clung to life but just barely. Helen had crept away, finally, taken by the fever, quietly in the night. In the end, Eamon himself had sat with her, holding her hand and soothing her delusional fears. At the end, she had come out of her fogged state long enough to ask for her ‘son’ so Alistair was brought to her one last time. She had taken his little hand in hers and kissed it before sinking back into unconsciousness, never to wake. Eamon wept at such a love and vowed Alistair would be told of her.

A few hours later, the messenger he sent to Denerim arrived but not alone. He was accompanied by a mage whom Eamon recognized as Willhelm, Maric’s court mage, a vain and self-important man, who was also dangerous by all accounts. There were even stories of him using blood magic but nothing could ever be proven.

“Where is he?” demanded Willhelm.

“I will show you,” said Eamon.

The two made the walk upstairs in silence but Eamon stopped him at the door to Alistair’s room. He motioned for everyone in the hall to leave, and once they were gone, faced the mage. “What has Maric told you?” he asked.

“I suppose you mean do I know who he is. Yes, my help comes with a price. I know all about him,” Willhelm answered.

Eamon stepped back from Willhelm. The mage had always made him uneasy. His very presence seemed to scream power and evil, yet as far as Eamon knew he had never used that power against the crown or country. “What options will be open to us?” he asked.

“If the description of the illness you gave me was correct then healing it will be no small feat and may require…unusual and potentially dangerous methods.”

Eamon lowered his voice and commanded all the power he had in him to reply, “Do what you must, but no harm must come to the boy or anyone in my household. It is on your head.” 

Willhelm was unimpressed with the display, such theatrics stopped being interesting long ago. “We waste time, my lord.” And with that, he opened the door and closed it behind him, leaving Eamon standing in the empty hall.

What happened in that room that night was always a matter of speculation among those who were there. Some in the castle say blood magic was the cure, others that Willhelm was just a talented healer, but all Eamon knew was that the next morning, he entered Alistair’s room to find the fever had broken and the boy sleeping soundly. A pretty elven woman was sitting next to his bed stroking his hair and singing an elven tune that Eamon recognized from his own childhood. 

“I remember you….Terena?” he said.

She looked up from her charge and smiled at him, “Yes, my lord, it is I. The King heard of the death of the boy’s caretaker and asked me to come and stand in for her. I was more than happy to do so. He is  A'maelamin, my beloved. I have always considered him so.”

“Thank you for coming, Terena. Where is your son? Did he come with you?

“He stayed in Denerim with my father. He is strong and healthy and takes after his father, Maker keep his soul. He died last year in battle while in the Teyrn’s service. I have stayed on at the palace in the laundry. The King has been very kind to me and my son.”

Eamon was touched by her loyalty. “I am sorry about your husband. You are always welcome here, my dear.” He smiled at her and added, “Let us know if you need anything,”

“I could use a little food, my lord. The journey was short but hard and I am hungry,” she replied.

“I will see that you get something immediately as well as a cot to sleep on. I do not think you would want to leave him, would you,”

Terena smiled at his generosity, “No, my lord, he will need me and I must be here.”

Eamon smiled at the woman and silently walked to the boy’s cot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an amulet of Andraste, hand carved and worn and placed it on the pillow next to Alistair’s head. “He will need this now I think,” Eamon said softly. He left the room and softly closed the door on Terena and her sleeping charge. Perhaps the wheel turns after all, he thought.   



	4. Witches, Royalty, and Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

Witches, Royalty, and Friends

“And what did the witch do next Aaron?”  
Aaron smiled at the boy’s eagerness, “Flemeth called upon all the powers of darkness to slay Conobar and avenge the death of her lover, Osen. But the price of such revenge is high and Flemeth was forced to hide in the swamps of the Kocari Wilds. She lives there still, biding her time until she can return to the world of men.”  
Alistair was totally entranced with what he’d just heard, “What does she do in that swamp? Turn people into frogs?” he asked.  
Aaron chuckled at the boy’s thought. He was the most curious person he’d ever met in his sixty-plus years of life, and one of the smartest. “It’s possible son, it’s possible,” he replied.  
The boy’s eyes grew wide as he contemplated what it would take to turn someone into a frog. Aaron could see the thoughts racing through the boy’s head as he watched him. At five, Alistair was precocious, smart and clever, all qualities that would be admired in any other child, but not him. He was repeatedly in trouble, whether through playing pranks, being in the wrong places, or his impulsive chattering. Mothers were already steering their children away from 'that boy’ as he was called. Unfortunately, Alistair had begun to notice the lack of attention and was sometimes moody. To keep him busy and take his mind off his troubles, Aaron had begun to teach him about caring for the horses and livestock in the stable, and while working he would tell the boy stories to pass the time and cheer him up. It was a tactic that worked well, but Aaron knew it wouldn’t always.  
“Don’t forget that you are supposed to have midday meal with his lordship today, Alistair. He wanted me to remind you.”  
“Do I HAVE to Aaron? He’s so boring and he never talks about anything interesting. I’d rather hear you tell the story about the Grey Wardens and the last Blight,” complained Alistair.  
Aaron looked at the boy and steeled his emotions. He could be so determined and ‘I must not let him’ he thought, “He is your guardian and he requires your presence at table, lad. I could not refuse his summons and neither should you. Now go clean up, change your tunic to the good one, and I’ll walk you up there. Get going.” He watched the boy run off to the well carrying the soap and towel Aaron had handed him. ‘You are destined for great things Alistair,’ he thought, ‘Maker help you get there.’ He walked out to join him.  
********  
The meal was simple as the Arl was at heart a simple man, despite his immense wealth and station. A mutton stew with fresh bread was served followed by freshly picked apples baked with sugar and a flaky crust. ‘Delicious!’ Eaman thought as he scraped the last bit off his plate.  
His gaze was drawn to the boy sitting on the other side of the table wolfing down every bite as if it were his last. ‘So like his father,’ he mused, ‘never a bite wasted.’ Eamon had called Alistair to this meeting to inform him of some changes in his life that were about to occur, as well as address some recent events involving the boy that had come to his attention. He didn’t think it would be a pleasant meeting for either of them. Still, he took a great interest in the boy’s welfare and called these meetings once a quarter to keep up with the events in Alistair’s life. It was a time to hammer some discipline into that willful mind and prepare him for the life he would lead as a noble when the time came. The fact that Alistair resisted everything Eamon tried to teach him meant little, it was Maric’s desire not Eamon’s that the boy learn his place in the world.  
Since Helen’s death, Alistair’s welfare had been in the charge of a small group of dedicated and decent people who both Eamon and Alistair trusted. Terena had remained with the boy for a year making sure he was well cared for and loved. Eamon sent for her son so she could be with him and the three had made a happy if not unusual family group. Maric had approved but when it was discovered that Alistair called Terena ‘Mamae,’ the elven word for mother, Terena had been returned to Denerim with her son, much to her and Alistair’s dismay. He had been upset but soon found a new companion in the form of Lana, a pretty, young, sixteen-year-old kitchen maid who had discovered him hiding in an alcove near the kitchen, crying. She had sat down beside him, gathered him up, and held him, soothingly. Alistair had bonded with the girl immediately and the feeling was mutual. Eamon had the girl investigated and found she came from a good family, her father farmed land for Eamon south of Redcliffe and her mother had served Eamon’s father as a cook for many years. He gave his approval of the arrangement.  
Lana made sure Alistair was clean, fed and out of trouble until recently, when she had married a young man from a farm near her parents’. It pained Eamon to see the boy unhappy again, but Lana was so happy in her marriage and Alistair was a frequent visitor to their farm. The visits helped ease the boy’s loss and pacify his sadness.  
Since Lana’s departure, Alistair had been in the unofficial care of Aaron, the old stable master. Aaron kept Alistair busy, as it was the only thing that could keep him out of trouble. He taught him about horses, sheep and goats, from curry combing to milking, none of which the boy was good at. Alistair tried hard to please Aaron if no one else, and everyone was satisfied for now. The main problem now was combatting the boy’s impulsiveness and troublemaking, the main reason for the meeting today.  
“Enjoying your meal, Alistair?” Eamon asked the boy, noticing that Alistair’s plate was nearly empty.  
“Yeth, muh lordth,” was the reply, coming from a mouth full of food.  
Eamon swallowed a chuckle behind his napkin, “Alistair, do not talk with your mouth full. Wait until you have swallowed to speak, if you don’t mind. And do not take such big bites,’ he said sternly.  
Alistair swallowed the bite and looked warily at the Arl, “Yes, my lord. The food is good.”  
Eamon decided to get to the business at hand, “I have called you here today to discuss some matters that concern you, son. It seems that you have been busy since our last discussion, and not in a good way.” Alistair’s eyes grew wide and he dropped his spoon into his bowl.  
Eamon continued, “I have heard that Mistress Walker’s chickens somehow found their way out of their pen last week and that two of them are missing still.” The boy’s eyes grew wider.  
“It has also come to my attention that Owen the blacksmith is missing a hammer and a recently finished dagger. What do you have to say about these strange occurrences?”  
Alistair thought fast and hard about his answer and the truth was the way to go, “Mistress Walker told me I was useless like my father so I freed the chickens.”  
“And Owen?” asked the Arl.  
“I needed a hammer to build a chest for my treasures and the dagger was pretty and he has so many I thought I could use it,” replied the boy, now suitably cowed.  
“I see,” said Eamon, “It never occurred to you that these good people could use these items in their daily work and you were depriving them of their livelihood?”  
“Oh no, my lord. I only took them because they had so much and I had nothing.”  
The reasoning Alistair used could not be denied. In truth, the boy did have nothing, no parents, no real home, no possessions of his own. His life could not be easy for one so young and the situation was not lost on Eamon. Yet, the methods of obtaining the goods in question were underhanded and not worthy of a prince, bastard or no.  
“As punishment for your indiscretions in these matters, you will report to Mistress Walker for two hours every day for a week and assist her in whatever work she has for you until you have worked off the price of the missing hens. The next week, you will report to Owen and work off the cost of the dagger and hammer. You must learn to respect other people’s property, Alistair, you are not a thief,” he pronounced, as if he were judging a case in his hall.  
Alistair sat quietly, listening to all he had heard. His face was red, but blank, and Eamon could see the emotions reeling in the boy’s hazel eyes. Then the boy slowly opened his mouth and said, “I still have the dagger and the hammer. I will return them to Owen. Will that work?”  
“I will let Owen decide that. If the items are still in the condition they were in when you took them, he may decide to let you go. If he does, you will still serve him for two hours a day for two days as penance for your deeds and you will not shirk this duty. It is time you learn some respect. I will be watching you.”  
Alistair’s sheepish reply was, “Yes, my lord.”  
Eamon motioned the nearby servant to remove the dishes from the table. Alistair wasn’t finished with his meal, but had no more appetite. The Arl waited until the young man had gone, then addressed the boy again,” Alistair, how old are you now, five or six? I have lost track of time, I’m afraid.”  
“I am nearly six, my lord,” was his answer.  
“Nearly six. Time has passed so quickly,” remarked the Arl, “What would you say about going to school? You are old enough.”  
“I didn’t think they let bastards in school, my lord,” Alistair said quietly. Clearly there was something here.  
“And what fool has been telling you such drivel? In fact, it is worse than drivel as it is also untrue. You are not a bastard; you are the son of Edgar and Helen, married in the local chantry. A marriage I personally attended.”  
The reply the boy gave was not entirely unexpected, “Goldanna.”  
Eamon’s face became lined with worry. Goldanna was back. When Helen had died the girl was only twelve years old and since Alistair was only two, he had not been told she was his sister. Eamon had sent out word that he was not to be told as he feared for her influence on the boy. He had given her a place on the castle staff and she had worked in the laundry. However, as the months passed, the girl had become unstable and many of the other servants refused to work with her. She would rant for hours about ‘that bastard boy that killed my mother’ and how she should be treated better because he was the Arl’s son and she was his sister. Eventually, Eamon had been forced to act, and Goldanna was packed up and sent to Denerim with ten sovereigns in her pocket and a position in a noble household there. It was the least he could do for Helen’s daughter.  
The Arl looked at Alistair and asked, “When did she say this to you?”  
“Yesterday,” was the quick reply, “I saw her in the Chantry courtyard,”  
Eamon Guerrin was a good man, and one of the most honest men in all of Ferelden, but when he was crossed, he could be as vicious as a wolf pack attacking a deer, especially when he was defending one of his own. He looked at the small boy sitting in front of him and said, “None of what she says is true. You should know that. She will not bother you again. Do not worry.”  
“Yes, my lord,” was his reply.  
Eamon suddenly needed to call the meeting to an end as there was now a serious matter to attend to. He looked at Alistair, “Starting next Monday morning and every weekday morning after, you will report to Brother Moriel in the library for your schooling. You are not to be late and I will be checking on your progress. Do you understand?”  
Alistair’s face had changed and his expression was one of intense interest, “I understand, my lord. What will I be learning?”  
“To start, you will learn to read and write, followed by mathematics, literature, and history, I think. Some government and warfare eventually. We’ll see.”  
“I think I would like history, my lord. Aaron tells the best stories about the ‘old days.’ They’re my favorites,” Alistair exclaimed, glad the conversation topic had changed to something he liked.  
Eamon chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm, “He does indeed, son. Now, I’d like some more of that apple dish, wouldn’t you?” to which the boy nodded.  
When the after-meal discussion was finally concluded and Alistair was sent on his way to Mistress Walker’s house for his penance, Eamon left the small dining room and walked down the hallway to his study. He felt he’d had some success with the boy, but was not sure it would last. Still, it was pleasing to see Alistair’s excitement about going to school. History had been one of Eamon’s favorite subjects and the elder Alistair had instilled a love of learning that had stayed with him. Brother Moriel was a fine man, sent by Maric recently to teach Alistair what he would need to know, but since the boy still did not know who Maric was, Eamon had, with Maric’s blessing, put the man to work teaching the children of the knights who served the castle. The brother did not mind the extra work and Eamon paid him well. He made a mental note to speak to the man about the boy’s curriculum.  
When he entered his study, Eamon crossed the room to his large desk and rang the bell that sat on it. Almost immediately his steward was present with the usual, “What can I do for you, my lord?”  
Eamon straightened to his full height, dreading what he was about to do. He looked at his steward, standing there in anticipation.  
“Inform the Revered Mother that I would like a private audience with her. Tell her I will attend her this afternoon, if that is agreeable.”  
The steward quickly replied, “Of course, my lord. Is there anything else?”  
“Have the girl Goldanna brought to me at once.”  
The steward’s eyes grew bigger at the last, understanding the implications. He’d heard the gossip too. “As you wish, my lord,” he replied and quickly exited.  
‘No, thought Eamon, I’m not going to enjoy this at all,’ and he sat down to work.  
*****  
On Monday morning, Alistair found himself being poked by Aaron, “Get up you lazy lad, Brother Moriel is looking for you!”  
Alistair slowly opened his eyes and listened. ‘School!’ he thought. ‘I’m late!’ He jumped up just in time to see Aaron about to poke him again. He ducked.  
“You were supposed to be in the library two hours ago for school. Brother Moriel has the guard out looking for you. You’re lucky the Arl isn’t here. Now get up, get dressed, and wash up. And just what are you doing up here?” Aaron asked. He’d found the boy fast asleep up on the ramparts though how he had gotten there was a mystery.  
“I’m sorry, Aaron, I didn’t mean to be late. It’s just that Gerard, the kitchen boy, had this idea to go up to the ramparts and see if we could see lightning coming from Kinloch Hold. Sometimes the mages put on a display, he says, so I said let’s go see. Only when I got up here, Gerard pushed me through the door and bolted it from behind so I was stuck. I got tired of shouting so I went to sleep and figured I’d try again in the light.”  
“Gerard is not the sort of boy you should be with. Haven’t you been told not to go with him?”  
“I know. It’s just that no one else will play with me and I figured if I go with him, maybe I could keep him out of trouble,” reasoned Alistair.  
Aaron couldn’t doubt the boy’s reasons; few children would play with the boy as the rumors of his parentage continued to run unchecked. The boy didn’t help with his behavior, either. And there was much about Gerard that Aaron knew and Alistair didn’t. Gerard had been caught more than once with lyrium on his person and had even been dragged in front of the Arl for it. Plus, he has much older than Alistair and that was reason enough to keep him away from the boy. It was time for the Arl to deal with Gerard.  
“Gerard is not a good person, Alistair. You WILL NOT go anywhere or do anything with him again. I do not allow boys to come into my stable that I cannot trust. Remember that,” warned Aaron.  
“Y…yes Aaron.” Alistair hung his head in disgrace.  
“Come on lad, don’t be like that. Gerard is trouble and I do not want anything to happen to you, ever. You do understand that, don’t you?” Aaron’s voice was husky as he spoke.  
Alistair wasn’t called smart for nothing, he understood every word that Aaron had said, “I’ll stay away from him. Next time he talks to me I’ll run away.”  
“That’s the good lad. Now get yourself downstairs and get ready for school. And change your shirt!” The last was yelled as Alistair ran down the stairs.  
Aaron walked over to the edge of the ramparts and looked out over the small town below. He’d become very fond of the boy. Alistair often reminded him of his own son, dead so long ago in the war. His own grandchildren would have been just about the boy’s age, if his children had lived to have any. The Maker could be cruel at times, but ‘pain only makes one stronger,’ he thought. He walked back to the door and followed the boy downstairs.  
*****  
Alistair proved to be a fine student. He learned to read in a manner of weeks and was soon raiding the Arl’s library for history books. Even though he didn’t always understand all the words and ideas, he learned from Brother Moriel how to write down what he read so they could talk about it later. The Brother admitted privately to the Arl that he had never had a student so eager to learn. ‘Maric would be proud,’ thought Eamon.  
Eamon began to have Alistair spend time with several of the local merchants and craftsmen during his off-hours. It was thought that by experiencing the work of these people first hand, he would develop an appreciation of them and the work they did. Indeed, if the work was interesting to Alistair, he would appreciate it, but if not, then the old troubles often resurfaced.  
The rumors of Alistair’s possible parentage were still there, but had not resurfaced to the extent of being serious trouble thanks to the absence of Goldanna. She had been sent by the Arl to the Chantry where she was immediately shipped off to Denerim again. This time, though, she would be assigned work where she would be confined, so her return was doubtful. Eamon was relieved to have that chapter in Alistair’s life concluded. He still had no idea that she was his sister and Eamon planned on keeping it that way.  
It was at this time that a message arrived from Denerim that made Eamon cringe as he read it. Maric was coming. When Rowan was alive, he often journeyed to Redcliffe to get away from the bustle of palace life. Neither he nor Rowan liked the palace much, looking on it as a necessary evil, and they escaped it as often as they could. It seemed that Maric was headed to Orzammar to negotiate a trade treaty and would spend time in Redcliffe visiting on the way there.  
Eamon’s head ran in circles around the possibilities. Alistair was nearly seven and in all those years, Maric had never even met the boy. Eamon send regular missives documenting the boy’s behavior, schooling and events that occurred, but no mention of whether Alistair should be told the circumstances of his birth were ever brought up. That Maric was choosing now to visit was curious.  
One week later, the royal train moved through the castle gates and into the courtyard. Alistair stood with a group of boys in the crowd that lined the bridge to the castle keep. He had never seen a king and the excitement was almost more than he could handle. The boys pushed and shoved to get a good view and when one of them pushed too hard, Alistair pushed back only to find himself pushed out into the road and directly in front of the king’s horse.  
The horse shied away from the boy and Alistair quickly dodged the dancing hoofs that appeared over his head. Maric controlled the horse by turning him away from Alistair, who stepped back into the group of boys. Once his horse was under control, Maric looked toward where the boy had darted back into the crowd. The boy stopped long enough to look back at Maric, and then continued pushing his way through the crowd until he disappeared. Maric’s face turned white as he realized what had just happened. He had nearly killed his own son. Gathering his wits, he spurred his now quiet horse through the gates.  
*****  
“Well, Eamon, now that this well-made meal is out of the way, tell me about my son.” Maric’s look was not one that anyone would ignore and Eamon had seen it too many times to try.  
They were dining that evening in Eamon’s study, guards at the door, so that personal matters could be discussed in relative privacy. Eamon had pulled out all the tricks he knew to please Maric in hopes that Maric would be pleased and allow Alistair to stay in Redcliffe. Despite himself, Eamon had grown fond of the boy.  
“You saw him, sire. He looks just like your majesty. I have asked a trusted retainer to keep him out of sight for his protection. Prying eyes, as it were. I do apologize for the incident at the gate, I did not know until later that the boy was Alistair,” replied Eamon.  
“No harm done, he had been pushed by another so it was not his fault. His shame will be punishment enough. We’ll not speak of it again,” Maric said, covering the fatherly fear that still gripped him. “I would ask you, though, why ‘Alistair’?”  
Eamon smiled at his king, “I had a childhood tutor in the Free Marches named Alistair, it means ‘defender of the people;’ I thought it appropriate at the time. The Revered Mother insisted on a second name for him during his dedication, Helen chose A'maelamin. I had told her that his first nursemaid had called him that and she liked it.”  
“His mother called him that,” Maric said quietly with sadness in his eyes. He recovered quickly and asked, “What sort of boy is he?”  
“Rambunctious, talkative, and intelligent. He is an excellent student and already is learning things far above his level. We have learned that he must be kept busy, though, as he tends toward getting into trouble. Nothing serious, but one never can be too careful.”  
“Excellent. I am very pleased. I should like to meet him.”  
The last six words were the words that Eamon had dreaded since the announcement of Maric’s arrival. How do you tell a man it’s not a good idea for him to meet his own son?  
“Your majesty, I cannot forbid you from seeing your own son, obviously, however, I must ask if you truly think it is in Alistair’s best interest that he find out about his parentage at this point in his life? He is adjusted to his life here, and although it has been hard for him, he considers this his home and family. I would counsel against making any major changes in his upbringing until he is better able to cope,” pleaded the Arl.  
“I don’t want to take him away, Eamon. Just meet him. Would that be possible?” Maric had left ‘king mode’ and entered the guise of concerned father. It was a side of him that Eamon had never seen, and he liked it.  
“Perhaps a covert visit, a walk through the stables maybe. I could take you on a tour tomorrow and see that the boy is made available to you. Would that be sufficient?” asked Eamon.  
“I like that; I’ll look forward to it. Thank you for the excellent meal but I should retire, it has been a long journey. Good night, my lord.” With that, Maric left the room to be escorted upstairs by Eamon’s chamberlain.  
The next morning, as arranged, Eamon took his king on a tour of the stables, ostensibly to look at a new mare Eamon had purchased and some prized dairy cattle. Aaron had been informed of the King’s desire to see Alistair but was told it was in regard to the incident at the gate. The King wished to apologize and inquire if the lad was all right, nothing more. Aaron agreed to have him there.  
Aaron did not tell Alistair that the King wished to see him so as not to scare the boy. Instead he put him to work cutting leather strips on the harness block. The boy was hard at work when the King and Arl arrived.  
They walked down the central aisle, stopping to look at a horse or two and chatting about trade relations when they reached the corner area where the harness block was located. Alistair was hard at work cutting leather and did not see them approach.  
Maric stopped Eamon with his hand and indicated for him to stay, then approached the working boy. The knife Alistair was using was dull, something he had found on a rubbish pile and sharpened to carry. He was practically sawing at the leather and making little headway.  
“Perhaps this will help you, lad,” said a voice above him and a shining veridium dagger presented itself on the harness block. Alistair looked up into the sky blue eyes of his king and recognition spread across his face followed by fear as he remembered the day before and the incident at the gate. He quickly dropped to one knee.  
Maric smiled at his son, “Now, now, none of that. I told everyone else not to do it today, so you can’t either. What’s your name boy?”  
“Alistair, your majesty,” was his reply.  
“A fine name. I like it. See if that dagger works, will you?”  
Alistair picked up the finely wrought dagger in his hand. It was shiny, with runes carved into the blade and hilt. He had never seen anything so fine in all his life. He slowly applied the blade to the leather and it parted like magic. He was enraptured.  
Maric watched his son find such pleasure in such a small thing. The dagger was nothing special to him, a gift from a visiting dignitary. But to see this boy, his son, find such pleasure in it was heartwarming to Maric. Fiona would be so pleased, he thought.  
The boy made quick work of the leather, then turned the knife around in his hand to return it to the King hilt first just as Aaron had taught him. Maric watched him as he carefully placed it in his hand and held it out, “Thank you, your majesty, you are very kind,” he said quietly.  
“Keep it son,” Maric said, “I believe you have far more need of it than I. Let it be a sign that your king bears you no ill will. Use it well.” He reached around his belt and unhooked the small decorated sheath. “You will need something to carry it in.”  
Alistair was stunned. The King had given him his dagger! He stumbled for words but was only able to stammer, “Th…th…thank you, sire.”  
“You are very welcome, ser,” Maric replied huskily, then turned and walked out the door, leaving Alistair alone with his gift, the wheel turning.  
 


	5. The Agony of Partings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

The Agony of Partings

‘All’s well that ends well?”  
If anyone were to ask that of Alistair of Redcliff, he would have said no. In the seven years since his arrival he had found that just as things started going well, they stopped going well. The future wasn’t looking bright for the bastard prince.  
It started with the Arl’s long trip to Denerim. He had been gone for two months already and Alistair wondered if he was ever returning. Messengers arrived regularly from Eamon with instructions and answers to questions so no one really minded much. No one except Alistair.  
He had begun to like the Arl. During their quarterly meetings, they would discuss Alistair’s latest mishaps, set the penalties, and then talk of the latest history book they were each reading; talking away until their allotted time in the Arl’s busy schedule ran out and his steward had to interrupt. They always promised to meet again and pick up the conversation, but never did until the next quarter. But that was okay with Alistair, as he knew how busy the Arl was.  
Eamon had sent a swords master back from Denerim with orders to take the younger children and begin to teach them to defend themselves. Unbeknownst to Alistair, the man was actually sent by Maric with the idea that he teach Alistair, but Eamon talked the man into teaching all, and paid him well to do it. So once a day for an hour, Alistair had sword practice with all the children who wanted to learn. He failed miserably, mostly because he was small for his age, but he had a strong constitution and never gave up, all qualities that impressed Master Hamlin. “A warrior can never let on that he is defeated, for if you do, you are,” the Master said to his pupils. This was a lesson Alistair understood and never forgot.  
When the Arl did finally return home, he was not alone and the reason for his long absence became clear. While in Denerim, he had been reintroduced to an Orlesian noblewoman visiting the court. She was cultured, smart, and beautiful and Eamon was totally smitten. He began courting the woman by messenger and in person and successfully negotiated a marriage contract with her father. They were married in the Denerim cathedral by the Grand Cleric herself and soon returned to Redcliffe to start their new life together.  
Life for the Lady Isolde in Redcliffe wasn’t difficult; she had been raised on her father’s farm hold and knew how to run a household. She was familiar to the local people as her father’s forces had occupied Redcliffe during the war. She was as smart as she was pretty, but had a wicked tongue that no one wanted to hear. Fortunately she was easy to please unless the person who was trying to please her was Alistair  
From the first day of their acquaintance, it was clear the Isolde Guerrin disliked Alistair. She had heard all the rumors surrounding him, courtesy of prying household staff. Alistair tried to be helpful and pleasing when he got the chance, always greeting her with a cheery, “Good morning, Lady Isolde,” or “Hello, Lady Isolde.” She would glare at him and make some derogatory remark about his cleanliness or manners and ask why he wasn’t in school. There was no pleasing her.  
In a last ditch effort, Alistair spent all afternoon picking wild flowers in the fields around Redcliffe. He had bundled them into a neat bundle and wrapped them in a clean cloth to keep dirt from off her hands. He went to the main hall where he found the Arlessa working with some women. “I picked these for you, my lady,” he announced and handed her the bundle. Isolde looked at the bundle held before her, sniffed it and said, “I can’t bear wild flowers, take that thing away!” Alistair left the hall, crushed and humiliated for he knew she did indeed like wild flowers. He had seen the Arl give her a similar bundle just the week before. After that, he stopped trying.  
The upper floor staff began to talk about arguments they heard between the Arl and Arlessa regarding Alistair. The Arl denied that the boy was his son, but his oath to the King prevented him from telling her who the boy really was. This just fueled the fire more as Isolde felt her husband was keeping secrets from her, which he was. She had even found a way to discourage Eamon from having his quarterly lunch with Alistair, a situation that neither party enjoyed. It was not a pleasant situation and caused Alistair to spend more and more time away from the castle, deepening his loneliness.   
One way to beat the dark feelings was to make mischief, he soon discovered. The more the Arlessa leaned on him, the craftier he would become. And although she was never his target, he had more respect than that, she often heard of them and in her husband’s absence, was force to mete out his punishment.   
It was a warm summer’s day and the Arl had journeyed to Denerim as he did once a quarter to meet with the King and other important people. Alistair had been engaged in a prank-fest with another boy from the kitchen staff. So far, snakes had been placed in beds, legs sewn up in a pair of britches, and alum had been poured into a drink. Still, the boy had managed to get back at Alistair each time and it was time for the big guns.   
He spent all morning searching for just the right bucket for the job. He enlisted the help of one of the younger kitchen girls by giving her a copper he’d found outside the Chantry. She agreed to call the boy while he was in the herb closet off the kitchen proper. When the boy would open the door, the bucket full of water would dump on his head, sousing him. A perfect set up. So the next day, Alistair and his accomplice observed the boy enter the closet and Alistair quickly set up the prank and gave the signal to the girl. She called and no one came out. She called again and no one came out. The third time she called, the door opened, the bucket dropped, and Alistair discovered to his horror that the target of the prank was not the cursed kitchen boy, but the Arlessa herself, wet and furious.  
“Alistair! Come here!” she screamed followed by several long sentences in Orlesian which fortunately no one in the kitchen spoke.   
There was no reason to deny what he’d done. He apologized profusely but nothing helped. In the end he was forced to clean up the entire room until no traces of the event existed, then report to the Arlessa in her solar.  
He cleaned the mess, cleaned himself, then made the long trip up the stairs. Lady Isolde was clean and pressed and her hair had been combed and dried and pinned back up in the neat bun she always wore.   
“What do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded.  
“Nothing, my lady. I was wrong. I am sorry,” was his penitent reply.  
Lady Isolde took the reins firmly this time, “For your punishment, you will be sent to the stables to sleep and work for a week. We shall see how you fare after a week in the hay.”  
Alistair thanked her meekly for her kindness and she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. He bowed, backed out of the room and shut the door behind him. A smile spread across his face as he realized she had unwittingly given him not a week’s punishment but a week’s play in the stable with Aaron.   
At the end of his banishment, Alistair climbed the steps to his room in the castle only to find the door locked. He knocked and knocked and it was answered by an older gentleman who explained he was a gardener Lady Isolde had hired to rework the castle garden and she had assigned him this room. He looked down at the floor and noticed a bag sitting next to the doorway of the room. He opened the bag and found that it contained all his clothes and possessions. As he was tying it up again, the upper floor charge maid informed him that Lady Isolde had decided he was to stay in the stable for good and to get a move on. He picked up his bag and did as he was told. ‘It was home now anyway,’ he thought.  
Two weeks later, the Arl returned from his trip to find Alistair no longer lived in the castle. When he confronted his wife, he was told what the boy had done and that she could no longer handle him. An argument ensued containing the same phrases and thoughts as all the others and the Arl stomped out to go to his study. He rang the bell and summoned Alistair for an accounting of the events.  
Alistair arrived a few minutes later in the company of one of the castle guards who saluted and left. Eamon looked the boy up and down, “The Arlessa tells me you have been up to your old tricks Alistair. What do you have to say for yourself?  
“Nothing, my lord,” was his quiet reply.  
“Have you learned your lesson then?”  
“Yes, my lord,” he said just as quietly.  
“I have asked the chamberlain to return your room to you. We will find other quarters for the gardener. Get your things from the barn,” said the Arl.  
“No, thank you my lord,” declared the boy.  
“You don’t want your room anymore?  
“No my lord. I am happy in the stables.”  
Eamon was dumbstruck. This quiet, cowed boy was not the same Alistair he’d had standing in that same spot before. Something had changed and Eamon feared what that change was. “You are sure you want to stay there?” he asked.  
“Yes, my lord.” Another quiet reply.  
“Very well, I will inform Aaron he is to find you a place. You are dismissed,” with that, Alistair turned and left.   
“How do I explain to Maric that his son prefers to sleep in the stables?” thought Eamon. He picked up the bell and rang for the steward.   
“Send the guard captain to me,” he asked.  
“Yes, my lord,” was the quick reply.  
Minutes later a middle-aged man in armor arrived and saluted the Arl.   
“I have a job for you that will require secrecy and stealth. No one is to know but you and the men you assign,” he told the guard captain.  
“What is the job, my lord?” asked the guard captain.  
“Bodyguard,” replied the Arl.  
*****  
Life in the stables agreed with Alistair; he finally got his growth spurt and was soon as tall as the other boys his age. This was a fortunate occurrence for his sword fighting skills as it improved his reach and made him a better warrior. Master Hamlin was very impressed with his prowess and reported as much to Eamon, who reported it to Maric.  
In school, he was already learning subjects at a level far above the students his own age so Brother Moriel began to tutor him privately in the afternoons. This meant that he had to have sword practice in the mornings so Master Hamlin began to teach him privately at that time. While this new arrangement meant nothing to Alistair, it was exactly as Eamon and Maric wished and soon the Master and the Brother were able to follow a strict curriculum set down by Maric himself. Alistair suspected nothing.  
Just before his ninth birthday, Alistair was helping Aaron in the stables when the older man suddenly collapsed. Alistair yelled for help and was soon assisted by several stablemen and boys who carried Aaron to his room off the main stable. A message was sent to the castle and soon the mage, Timon, arrived to look at Aaron.   
Alistair sat down on a cot in the room he had been sharing with Aaron since he had moved into the stable the year before. The old man had insisted Alistair stay with him as he had been told by the Arl that the boy was to be watched and protected. Aaron agreed to act as caretaker. Alistair suspected nothing and never seemed to notice that he was always followed when he left the stables. Complete accountings of the boy’s actions were delivered to the Arl on a daily basis.  
Timon examined Aaron carefully and twice Alistair was sent to fetch water from the well for the mage. Eamon arrived and conferred quietly with Timon in the corner, speaking low so Alistair couldn’t hear. When they were finished, Timon bent down and gave Aaron a few sips of some liquid and spoke to him, Aaron nodded in reply. Eamon looked at Alistair and said to him, “Come with me, son.” Alistair looked towards Aaron and shook his head. “We will be right back,” he promised. Alistair did as he was told.  
“What’s wrong with him, my lord?” asked the boy.  
“Aaron’s heart is tired, Alistair, and it is ready to stop. He is dying, my boy.”  
Frustration and anger took over, “He can’t die! He hasn’t finished telling me the story of Ser Aveline! Please, find a way to make him better!”   
“Alistair, I can’t change what the Maker wills, even you know that. If I could help him, I would but his time has come,” explained Eamon.  
Alistair’s tears flowed as he realized the truth of what the Arl had said. If the Maker was calling Aaron home, then he would have to go home. Perhaps he would see his wife and children again. “How long?” he asked.  
“Soon, Timon says. Don’t worry, it will be painless, he will just stop living. Why don’t you come up to the castle with me? There is nothing for us to do here.”  
“No thank you, my lord. I want to stay with him in case he needs me,” Alistair replied and went back into the little room.  
Eamon watched as the boy entered the room and sat back down on the cot. He was reminded of Terena who had sat by the boy’s bed as he recovered from the fever years ago. Alistair had that same calmness while facing death. Perhaps that was where it came from. With one last look at the boy, Eamon left to return to the castle.  
Aaron lived for two days and during that time Alistair never left him. He’d moved a chair next to Aaron’s bed and had sat down next to him and told him stories. Some were stories he heard from Aaron and these made the old man smile, but many were new, gleaned from the history books the boy loved so well. At the end, Aaron looked up at the boy he’d learned to call his own and took his hand.  
“You are destined for greatness, son,” he said.  
“What do you mean?” asked Alistair.  
“You will find your destiny in the old place. Together you will fight the evil and create the new,” he said.   
“What old place, Aaron, I don’t understand.”  
“Where they fought before, lad. She will be there,” was his reply.  
Suddenly a spasm gripped Aaron and he clutched his chest. Timon ran over from his stool in the corner but Aaron was gone. He laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulders and squeezed lightly, “He’s gone, son. He’s gone to the Maker’s side.”  
Alistair sat staring at the one person he loved in the whole world and who had loved him unconditionally. There was no one for him now.   
Timon carefully placed Aaron’s hands on his chest and covered the man up with his blanket. He took Alistair gently by the shoulders again and guided him out of the room where the Arl was waiting. “He is gone, my lord,” said the mage, “It was quick.”  
The Arl nodded, “Thank you, Timon. You did all you could.” The mage nodded gathered his things, and left the stables,  
Eamon looked down at Alistair standing before him. He thought of all the times he had had the boy in a similar position. He was being punished again, but not for something he did. Everyone he loved left him, Eamon thought, and now he was alone. Eamon could think of no worse punishment than that.   
“Alistair? Come up to the castle with me to get something to eat. You must be starved,” he said.  
“No, thank you, my lord. I am fine. I will…stay here,” and he turned and walked back into the room, took out a sack and began to pack up his things. “I must move my things out of here. The new stable master will not want me here,” he said.  
The Arl left him to finish his work. ‘So much pain for such a young man,’ he thought and returned to the castle, leaving the boy to his work and his grief.  
The next few days were a blur to Alistair. There was a wake then a funeral as Aaron had been a prized member of the community and many mourned him. Alistair was in hiding most of the time but appeared at the funeral and wake at the Arl’s request.  
At Aaron’s funeral, Alistair has been the one to light the funeral pyre with the sacred flame. It was an honor usually reserved for the closest adult male relative, but Aaron had none, so Eamon insisted Alistair be the one. He had taken the torch, lit it from the sacred flame, and touched it to the pyre. Aaron’s body soon burst into flame and the ceremony was finished. Alistair ran back to the stable.  
That night, as he sat in his new sleeping place up in the loft, Alistair came to a decision; ‘no one wants me here’, he thought, ‘so I’ll leave’. He formulated a plan. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the worn amulet of Andraste and held it in his hand. It was the only thing he had of his mother’s. “Andraste give me strength,” he pleaded and bowed his head.  
Three nights later he snuck out of the stable. He had a pack that contained food and water, spare clothes, a little money he had earned, the dagger he had received from the king, and his new sword. It had been a gift from Aaron, and even though he wasn’t very good with it, he still might need it.  
He stuck to the shadows and made his way out of the keep. The gates had been left up as there was no danger nearby so he was able to creep out. He ran across the causeway bridge and down the road towards Denerim. Alistair chose Denerim since it was a big city and would have many places to hide. His mood improved as he sped through the night.  
The next day found him nearing the village of Lothering. He had been there with Aaron so he was somewhat familiar with it. He stopped at the local well and filled his water jug, checked his food supply and headed for the Imperial Highway. He never made it.  
Just as Alistair was getting on the highway, a group of horsemen came upon him. They were knights and they carried shields with the symbol of Redcliffe upon them. They formed a circle around him, trapping him.  
“Alistair, what are you doing?” asked one of the knights. He removed his helmet and revealed himself to be Ban Teagan, Arl Eamon’s younger brother. “Are you trying to get yourself killed out here?”  
Alistair was angry that his plan had failed, he didn’t want to go back to Redcliffe, no one cared about him there and he was better off anywhere else. “I’m leaving and I’m not going back,” he said defiantly.  
“Is that so? Well then, perhaps you aren’t concerned about bandits attacking, wolves eating you or hedge mages turning you into a frog, hmmm?” Teagan asked. The other knights stifled laughter at this.  
Alistair’s face grew pale as he contemplated all three of those outcomes. He wasn’t really prepared for any of them. He was stuck and Teagan knew it.  
“Come on back to the castle, son. Surely there is something we can do to help you,” Teagan said using his most persuasive voice.   
“Fine,” said Alistair and walked over to Teagan’s horse. The knight gave him a hand up and he landed on the back of the horse, hanging on to Teagan’s armor.   
“Hang on, boy! We’ll be home in no time,” Teagan exclaimed as they trotted back towards Redcliffe.  
When they arrived at the castle, the guard at the gate informed Teagan that the Arl wished to see him as soon as he returned. Teagan thanked the man and dismounted, helping Alistair down. Together, they walked into the castle and headed towards the Arl’s study. “Wait right here,” Teagan said, “Don’t move,” and he entered the study.  
A few minutes later, the door opened and Teagan motioned for Alistair to enter. He entered slowly, keeping his head bowed.  
“Do you realize that you have had half the castle out searching for you?” demanded Eamon. “You could have been injured or killed and no one would know.”  
“No one would care,” Alistair said.  
Eamon was expecting an argument, not the sentence he’d just heard. “Teagan, would you excuse us?” he asked of his brother. Teagan left the room, leaving Eamon and Alistair alone.  
“What do you mean by that?” Eamon asked.  
Alistair knew his reckoning had come. “Aaron was the only person who cared about me. Now he is gone. There is nothing for me here.”  
“Of course there are people who care about you here. That was a foolish thing to say,” said a disgusted Eamon.  
“Are you my father?” the boy asked pointedly.  
Eamon Guerrin paused before he answered. Clearly there was an opportunity in that question. He could lie to the boy and say yes, then move him back into the castle and make him his heir. A simple way to handle it and the right amount of money would take care of any problems. Or, he could sit in the middle, tell him he wasn’t his father, that the man who is does not wish his identity known yet, and let him stay in the stable. Or, he could tell him the truth, he was Maric’s son, his mother was an elven mage and he was sent to Redcliffe to protect his identity and his life. Each one had its advantages and each one it consequences. He decided.  
“I am not your father Alistair. Your father is a powerful man who does not wish his identity known yet. I have sworn to protect you at all costs as requested by him and your mother. It was her wish that you be recognized as Edgar’s son. There is nothing else I can tell you.”  
“My mother asked you to take care of me?” the boy asked.  
“Yes,” replied Eamon.  
“Fine. That’s a reason to stay,” stated Alistair and walked out.   
*****  
The next several months were uneventful for Alistair. He continued his studies and his sword practice and was now starting to learn the use of a shield. His size lent itself well to a shield so his progress was good. In school, he was also excelling, learning higher math now and studying literature and art. The other children steered well away from him which was fine with him as he preferred his own company. His days included combat training in the morning, school in the afternoon, work at whatever jobs he had been assigned that day, then to bed to start over the next day. His days went fast.   
One day he overheard two of the kitchen boys talking about a dinner party Lady Isolde was giving that night. One of the boys had been scolded by the Arlessa the day before and he wanted revenge. He would hide under the banquet table and set loose a rat on the table. Alistair was appalled that anyone would try to do such a thing. He had learned his lesson the hard way and did not want to see the Arlessa embarrassed in front of guests.   
Alistair ran to the castle to look for the Arl only to find he’d left for Denerim that morning. He searched for the Arlessa, but she was not to be disturbed. The steward and chamberlain were also busy. With that he decided to stop it himself.  
That night, Arlessa Isolde and her guests were sitting at the banquet table enjoying the meal when Alistair burst into the room and ducked under the table, looking for the boys. At that cue, one of them released the rat and it ran down the length of the table, pandemonium in its wake. Alistair tried to catch it but found himself caught instead by the Arlessa, who had grabbed his collar.   
“That was the last time you will embarrass me!” she exclaimed angrily as he drug him out of the room by the collar. She found the nearest guards and ordered them to lock him up until he could be dealt with. They took Alistair away and locked him in a storage closet.   
The next day, the door opened and standing there were two Templar knights. “You are to come with us,” they ordered. Alistair had to obey.  
He was taken outside to the bailey, where two horses were waiting. One of the men mounted and motioned for Alistair to climb up behind him.   
“Where are we going?” he asked.  
“Denerim, boy. You’re going to be a Templar. The Maker favors you indeed.”  
Alistair looked back at the castle to see the Arlessa standing at the top of the steps, beautiful and haughty, a satisfied smile on her face. He realized the wheel was turning again but in the wrong direction.


	6. New Beginnings, Spiced with Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

New Beginnings, Spiced With Anger

“Maker’s breath, I swear I’ll take a switch to that boy this time!”  
The Templar stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow. He’d been walking through the heavily wooded area for two hours and was tired, hot, frustrated, and becoming angrier with each passing moment. It was the third time he’d had to go look for the boy from Redcliffe, and he was beginning to wonder if the boy was even worth the effort.  
Both men had been called to the castle three days before with a summons from the Arlessa. They were led into her solar where she beseeched them to take on a charge that was to be delivered to the abbey in Denerim.   
“What charge would that be, my lady?” asked Ser Montfort, his eyebrows rising.   
“I have a boy here who is in dire need of discipline and training. We have tried for years to teach him but he has resisted. He is a foundling, taken in by my husband. I would have you deliver the boy to the abbey in Denerim where he is to remain for training,” replied the Arlessa.  
“Very well. May I know more about the boy, your ladyship?” asked Ser Montfort  
The Arlessa thought for a moment then answered, “His name is Alistair. His mother was a kitchen girl here in the castle and died when the boy was very young. My husband took the boy in to care for him at his mother’s request. He is mischievous, crafty and smart. He can use a sword and has trained with a shield. His tutor reports that his abilities are beyond other children his age. He will be a fine addition to your order if he can learn some respect.”  
“Indeed he will, my lady. We will see he learns his place,” pronounced Ser William, who had been silent during the exchange. “Where is the boy now?”  
“I will show you,” said Isolde and rose from her chair to walk through a nearby door to an adjoining room. The room was obviously used as a storage area for the Arlessa’s personal items and a small door was inset in the rear wall. The Arlessa pulled out a key from a hidden pocket of her gown and opened the door. Inside the men saw a young boy, rubbing his eyes against the sudden light.  
“Come out boy,” commanded Ser Montfort.  
Alistair slowly crept out of the cabinet, stood up and stretched. He looked up at the imposing sight of the two Templars in all their armor and glory and a mask of fear came over his face. He stepped back a step.  
“You are Alistair? Are you not?” asked Ser Montfort.  
Alistair hesitated then replied meekly, “Y…Yes ser.”  
“You are to come with us,” commanded Ser Montfort.  
Alistair had been little trouble on the first day of the journey. He was silent the entire day and ate little at the evening meal. It was after dark that first day that the real trouble had started for the Templars.  
Ser William had had first watch and had gone into the bushes to relieve himself. Alistair seized the opportunity and ran into the woods in the opposite direction. Ser William had returned a few minutes later to find the boy missing and had awoken his comrade. Together they searched and located Alistair not a thousand yards away, hiding in a clump of thick brush. They had dragged him back.  
The Templars both scolded Alistair profusely with threats of night creatures and hidden dangers and vowed quietly to keep better watch over the boy.   
The next afternoon, the party had stopped at a roadside inn for some hot food and news when Alistair seized the opportunity and bolted again. He had begged to be allowed to use the outhouse at the back of the inn and Ser Montfort had reluctantly agreed. Once inside, Alistair had found a way to squeeze through some missing boards on the back wall and ran for the cover of a nearby corn field.  
When Ser Montfort discovered him missing, he hollered for his companion and with the help of a local hunter and his Mabari hound, had tracked Alistair to his hiding place in a tree about a mile from the inn. With more promises that he would stay put, they had continued on their journey.  
This morning had been much as the times before. The men awoke to find the boy gone again and had begun the search. ‘The boy has not covered his tracks well.’ thought Ser Montfort as he continued to look under every bush and in every tree, ‘A trap?’ he thought.   
Suddenly there was a loud crash in the brush, followed by a fierce growl. Alistair came running towards Ser Montfort at top speed, yelling, “A bear! It’s a bear!”  
Ser Montfort drew his axe and steeled himself for a charge. The bear was momentarily startled by the appearance of the knight and hesitated before the imminent attack.   
“The tree!” yelled the knight, “Get in the tree boy!” Alistair did as he was told.  
Ser Montfort swung his two handed battle axe at the bear, striking its head but doing little more than angering it more. He quickly circled the beast as it shook its head and struck again, this time connecting with the animal’s upper left leg. Blood spurted from the wound and the bear was momentarily stunned but recovered quickly. The knight was forced to dive to the ground to avoid the sweep of long sharp claws that lashed out at him. Ser Montfort rolled away quickly and came to his feet, axe at the ready only to see the bear drop to the ground with two arrows in its neck, shot by Ser William who had heard the commotion and had come at the bear from behind.  
“All right?” asked Ser William.  
“Yeah, no thanks to that boy,’ was Ser Montfort’s reply. He looked around and up to see Alistair sitting on a tree limb some twenty feet above, clinging for dear life. “Come down boy. Now,” he demanded. Alistair shimmied down and took a position in front of the men, his head hanging.  
“You have caused us no little trouble during this journey and now have nearly gotten yourself and I killed. What do you have to say?” Ser Montfort questioned angrily.  
Alistair’s eyes grew wide as he tried to shrink into himself. “Nothing, Ser. I was wrong. I’m sorry,” was the near silent reply.  
Ser Montfort looked at the boy for a moment or two, sizing him up. ‘Intelligent indeed,’ he thought. Plainly he’d been in this position before. After another moment for emphasis he spoke in the voice he reserved for his men, “You have endangered your comrades with your foolish games. A soldier must always think of others before himself, you will learn that or the next time it may be you who is attacked and it may not end so well. If you run again, I will personally tie you to my horse where you will ride until we reach the Abbey. Do you understand boy?”  
Alistair gulped and nodded, “Yes, Ser. I will obey.”  
The Templars set to work cleaning their armor and themselves, setting Alistair to the task of fetching the water. Ser Montfort knew he had learned his lesson this time as he could see that the boy did not desire to cause either of them harm, he just wanted to go home. When Alistair returned, Ser Montfort allowed him to clean the blood from his axe, watching and helping him when needed. Eventually the two began chatting about arms and armor and both men were amazed at his knowledge of the subjects. Alistair even showed them some moves that had been taught him by Master Hamlin, which impressed the men greatly. Sir Montfort and Ser William exchanged a look long practiced during their time together, ‘Clearly he was someone important and not just a foundling boy,’ thought both men. ‘But who was he?’  
Weapons and armor cleaned and peace having been made, the party continued on their journey to Denerim. Alistair unexpectedly came alive, asking questions of the men about arms, armor, battles, their training and their lives as soldiers. The men were impressed by his intelligence and knowledge even if his incessant talking seemed annoying at times. Still, they answered every question and both decided that it was a much more pleasant way to spend the afternoon than chasing boys through the brush and killing angry bears.  
The next day the party arrived in Denerim. Alistair had been there the year before when the Arl had been called to the Landsmeet. He had traveled there to act as the Arl’s page and run errands for him. Alistair had taken his duty very seriously and was rewarded with a visit to the King’s menagerie. There he saw exotic animals from many lands and had had the best day ever. He had even spoken to the King, who not only remembered him from his visit to Redcliffe but had inquired on the condition of his dagger. Alistair had presented it from its sheath as proof of its welfare and the King had been satisfied. Young Prince Cailan had also been introduced to Alistair but he seemed more interested in the men at arms practicing nearby and soon ran off to watch them. Maric was disappointed that Cailan and Alistair had not bonded but was happy that the covertly arranged meeting had gone well otherwise and confided to Eamon that he was most impressed with the boy and in Eamon’s abilities as guardian.  
The small party continued their journey through the streets of Denerim winding through the small avenues that wound up the hill toward the Cathedral and the Abbey of Andraste. Alistair noticed the houses, people and everything else as they made their way. Seated behind Ser Montfort, he did not have forward vision so he was forced to turn his head back and forth constantly in order to take everything in. Finally the horses came to a stop and he heard what sounded like a guard challenging Ser Montfort to state his business. The knight explained that they were bearing a charge for the Grand Cleric and presented a scroll. After a quick reading, the guard returned the scroll and waved them through into the courtyard of the Templar compound.  
Alistair would never forget the first time he saw the immense building and the huge statue of Andraste that stood in front. A flame burned in a brazier before the statue and flowering plants and bushes were scattered around it. It was at the same time imposing and beautiful. He hoped that it was a sign his life was improving.  
A young Templar recruit met them and escorted them to the Grand Cleric’s rooms where they were placed in her audience chamber. Alistair stood in the middle of the room, afraid to move as he might break or mar the fine statues and tapestries that lined the walls. A few minutes later a young sister entered the room and announced the arrival of the Grand Cleric.  
She walked in a businesslike manner, her robes swishing as she moved to stand in front of the three. She was grey haired and about sixty years old, with lines of care drawn on her forehead and around her eyes, which were a clear and shining shade of gold. Ser Montfort and Ser William saluted her.  
“Blessings of the Maker be upon you good sers. I have read the missive you have so kindly provided and it is in order. Is this the boy?” she asked.  
He is your grace. He is called Alistair,” answered Ser Montfort.  
The Grand Cleric looked down on the boy in question, “Come forward, son,” she said.  
Alistair’s feet were frozen in place and he could not move. Firmly but gently Ser Montfort pushed him forward until he was standing in front of the great lady. She suppressed a smile at his fear and awe.  
“Is it your wish to become a Templar, Alistair?” inquired the woman.  
“N..no, your grace,” he replied, “I want to go home.”  
“This is your home now, son. Here you will learn the discipline and training needed to become one of Andraste’s warriors and the Maker’s chosen. You do not wish this?” she asked, surprised.  
“No, your grace,” said the boy quietly, “I just want to go back to Redcliffe, to my real home.”  
The Grand Cleric considered the answer she had received from the boy and was not pleased. She was aware of the circumstances that had brought him to her but had not considered the possibility that he would not want to stay. All the recruits she had spoken to had wanted to be here, if only because their prospects outside were grim at the least. What made this boy different?  
“What would you do if you returned to Redcliffe, son?” she asked curiously.  
“Go to my tutor, study my swords and work as I have been,” he answered, “I was happy there.”  
“Here you will learn about swords and armor, warfare and be taught by some of the best tutors in Thedas. We have the largest library in the country at our disposal,” she declared, seeing an angle.  
Alistair’s eyes betrayed his true thoughts at this. He was intrigued and slowly asked, “Are there history books there? And literature?”  
“Enough to fill a lifetime, she replied, smiling at his interest. “Will you join us my son? Stay and learn?”  
The boy considered the implications of his reply very carefully. It was sounding too good and didn’t Lloyd at the tavern always tell him to avoid things that sounded too good? He had but this wasn’t a trade deal, it was a school, and he loved to learn. Warily he formed his answer and looked up at the grand lady, “I will try, for a while.”   
“Excellent! We will try to make it most interesting for you during your time with us. Sister Genevieve!” The young sister who had announced her, entered the room and bowed. “Take our newest recruit for a bath and let’s get him outfitted. Oh, and he will need a haircut,” she added.   
The sister motioned for Alistair to follow her and yet he hesitated, looking at Ser Montfort. The knight was sympathetic, remembering his first day here all those years before. “Go on son,” he said, with a kind smile, “You will be fine, you’ll see.”  
Alistair followed the girl out the door and it was shut behind him. The Grand Cleric paused a moment, then addressed the two knights who still stood before her. “Now, tell me who he really is,” she demanded.  
*****  
Eamon walked through the halls of Redcliffe Castle looking for his wife. It had been a longer than usual time away from her and he was eager to see Isolde again. He had only just arrived home having ridden through the night in anticipation. As he quickly strolled down the upper hallway near the library, he paused to look into the room and see how Alistair had fared during his absence. He was puzzled that he did not hear the usual chatter that dominated the room when he was present.   
Brother Moriel sat at a table in the back of the room, alone, scribbling quickly on a scroll. He looked up and was surprised to see the Arl approaching.  
“Hello my lord. I see you have returned. You had a pleasant journey, I suppose?” asked the brother.  
“Yes, thank you, Brother. It is good to be home again. Tell me ser, where is Alistair this afternoon? I thought you saw him at this time every day,” asked the Arl suspiciously.  
Brother Moriel’s eyebrows went up and he became concerned, “I have not seen the boy for over a week my lord.”  
“Then where is he?” questioned the Arl.  
“He is gone, my lord. He left over a week ago in the company of two knights. He is to become a Templar.”  
“And whose idea was that?” demanded the Arl.  
Brother Moriel had been in the castle long enough to know of the problems the Arl and Arlessa had concerning Alistair. He’d heard the rumors too. His next words were spoken carefully, “The Arlessa.”  
Arl Eamon turned on his heel and headed out the door. Minutes later Brother Moriel heard the shout, “Isolde! What have you done?”  
*****  
Alistair found much about the Abbey interesting but an equal number of things were annoying and hated. He loved his school and soon distinguished himself among his classmates. He had been examined by the Brothers and found to be highly intelligent and learned, far above the average ten year old. So he was placed with a group of thirteen year olds who found him a nuisance. He was disappointed with this situation, but found that by keeping to himself he kept trouble to a minimum.  
In military studies he was average but was slightly ahead of others his age in weapons training thanks to Master Hamlin, whom Alistair found was known to his instructors and much respected. “You are most fortunate to have had such an excellent instructor for sword and shield,” they exclaimed. It was decided that he would remain with his current age group as they would catch up to him soon.  
The Grand Cleric did not exaggerate about the library. It was kept in a room that had to have been a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. The sections on history and literature took up nearly half the room so he would have plenty to read for a long, long time. He soon became an almost daily visitor.  
Of the hated things there was the constant worry about cleanliness, not just himself but his room, his closet and anywhere else he happened to be at the time. There were daily inspections and he found himself on report more than once for violations of some code of cleanliness or another. This often had him scrubbing floors, marching, running circuits through the courtyard or sessions of prayer in the chapel. He was going to be very fit, clean and pious once he got out of there.  
Two weeks after he arrived, he was summoned to the Grand Cleric’s office by Sister Genevieve. She had pulled him out of his mathematics class and was adamant that he stop at the washroom and make sure he was cleaned up and presentable.  
“What for?” he asked, disgusted.  
“You have an important visitor,” she said and bent down to straighten his collar.  
“Hey, stop that! It’s too tight!” he complained, “Who wants to see me anyway? I have no one.”  
“I don’t know but the Grand Cleric will have my head if you aren’t there quickly and presentable. Go wash your face and hands,” she ordered.  
Ten minutes later he found himself outside the Grand Cleric’s office, sitting on a bench. He could hear voices in the room but could make nothing out. Just when he thought he’d go to sleep from boredom, the door opened and the Grand Cleric bid him enter.  
Alistair saluted her as he had been taught, then looked up to see not just her but Arl Eamon standing in front of him. Anger suddenly crossed his face and his eyes narrowed.  
“Recruit Alistair, you have a visitor,” said the Grand Cleric, “Please greet the Arl as you have been taught.”  
He looked up at the man he blamed for the loss of his home and friends and his present predicament. “No, thank you, your grace. May I go now?”  
“Recruit Alistair, that is not how honored guests are treated no matter what we think of them personally,” chided the Grand Cleric.  
“Your grace, might I have some time alone with the boy?” interjected the Arl.  
The Grand Cleric eyed Alistair with an angry eye then turned to the Arl, “Of course, my lord. Take all the time you need. I have some things to see to in the garden.” With that said, she left them alone.  
Eamon waited until the door had shut then looked down at the boy. He was suddenly reminded of the time they had stood like this outside of Aaron’s room after Aaron had died. Alistair had been beside himself with emotions and though the emotions were different now, the result was the same. “You are well, I assume?” he asked uncertainly.  
Alistair was silent, his eyes focused on the window above the Grand Cleric’s desk.  
“They have treated you well?” Eamon asked.  
Again there was no response. Eamon began to think what would get the boy talking; history and literature were no good as his state of mind was not receptive to such talk. He decided the direct approach was the way to go, “I understand you blame me for your presence here,” he said.  
Alistair whirled around to face the Arl; anger swirled from him like smoke from a fire. “You must really hate me,” he declared.  
Eamon looked down at the boy, anxiety building within him. He’d come to take him back to Redcliffe, but he knew that whatever strides he had made to build trust with Alistair were gone now. The boy mistrusted him, even hated him. How could he fix that?  
“I’ve come to take you home Alistair, this is all a misunderstanding; you can go back to Redcliffe and your friends.”  
“You don’t want me; no one there wants me. I’m just that bastard boy that you took in to make his mother happy,” he spat, “No one ever cares if I’m happy. Especially HER.”  
Eamon knew who “her” was. Isolde. He had been privy to many things in the last two weeks about his wife’s treatment of Alistair during his absences. Alistair had many reasons to hate Isolde, reasons that would be corrected and apologized for.   
“Isolde is very upset about this and wishes to apologize to you for her treatment,” explained the Arl.  
Alistair was quiet as he thought about what he’d heard. In his mind he had been abandoned; he wanted to get away and he was away. So be it.  
“I don’t want to see her or you ever again!” he yelled and reached into his tunic and pulled out the carved amulet of Andraste he wore on the inside of his clothes. He threw the necklace against the wall as hard as he could and it shattered with a small ‘clink.’ “NEVER!” he yelled and ran out the door.  
Eamon stood in the middle of the room looking at the open door, a tremendous feeling of failure consuming him. Slowly he walked to the desk and picked up a piece of blank paper he found there then walked to wall. He knelt down and carefully picked up every piece of the amulet and chain and placed it on the paper. Then he wrapped it up and placed it in his pocket. He turned to look out the window at the garden below and prayed that he would be a better father to his own children.   
Down the hall in the chapel, it was silent except for the soft sounds of crying heard from the bench near the altar. Sister Genevieve walked quietly down the aisle in the direction of the sounds and found Alistair sitting there, crying. She sat beside him, gathered him up in her arms and let him cry.  
*****  
Eamon found himself waiting in the hallway outside the Maric’s audience chamber. He had sent a message requesting an immediate audience with the King in regards to “the dagger”, which both parties had agreed would mean Alistair. He had hoped to never have to use the code as Maric would surely think that something dreadful had happened to the boy. ‘No your majesty, he is unharmed. But he has joined the Chantry,’ would not elicit a good response from Maric Eamon thought.  
The King’s chief steward appeared and bade him enter; the King would see him now. Eamon stood up, straightened his garments, and entered the chamber.  
Maric was sitting on the steps of the dais, as he had a strong dislike for the throne. “Blasted uncomfortable chair,” he would exclaim. Eamon approached him and bowed after the steward had announced his presence.   
“What has happened?” asked Maric anxiously once the steward had left.  
“He is all right, sire. Unharmed, but we may have a problem,” Eamon explained.  
“You had me worried! I was going over your latest missive and he seems to be doing better now. He seems to have recovered from his grief over losing the stable master. What could have happened that would need an immediate meeting?”  
“The boy…the boy is no longer in Redcliffe, sire. He is at the Chantry compound…in Denerim,” Eamon proclaimed.  
“What! Andraste’s ass! What he doing there?!” bellowed Maric.  
Eamon hesitated before saying the next. He hated to implicate anyone else in the matter, but the truth needed to be told. “My wife sent him there to join the Templars without my knowledge, sire. She has never been able to accept that the boy is not my son.”  
Maric calmed and thought a bit; he supposed he could not blame Lady Isolde for her feelings, but to treat the boy in such a way? Perhaps she should have been told the boy’s identity. “Bring him home,” he said.  
“Forgive me sire, but that is the problem. Alistair does not want to come home. He feels he has no place there and wishes to be gone. It is not the first time he has run away. By staying at the Abbey, he is away from Redcliffe and me, whom he blames for his unhappiness. By not returning he knows he will hurt me so he refuses.”  
Maric’s mouth slid into a half smile at that, “So like Cailan,” he murmured, “Shrewd at playing with people’s emotions.” He began to pace in front of the dais, deep in thought. After a few minutes he stopped and looked at the Arl, “Leave him there,” he said.  
“Beg your pardon, sire?”   
“The situation with our rivals has deepened. It has come to my attention that there may be someone outside our small group who knows of the boy’s existence.”  
Surely you do not think they would mean to harm the boy. There are only five of us who know of his existence. I have not even told my own wife; Duncan would not have told anyone. Perhaps Falan or Terena?” asked the Arl.  
“Duncan was concerned for their safety here in Ferelden so he took them to Weisshaupt two years ago. To my knowledge, they have been there ever since. Though I do not think they would have told anyone. The only other who knows is Loghain.”  
“Forgive me sire, but was that wise?”  
“Loghain is a personal friend, a trusted advisor and general of my armies, Eamon. I can trust him. He has known from the start.”  
“Of course, your majesty, I meant no offense. Why do you wish him to stay?” asked a puzzled Eamon.  
“The Abbey in Denerim is a fortress, surrounded by an army. My own armies could not get at it if they tried. Could you think of a better place to protect a prince of Ferelden?” Maric chuckled.  
“No, sire. I could not. About the prince thing though, when should we tell him? He surely has a right to know.”  
“You may tell him when you determine he is old enough to understand the implications. I leave that in your capable hands,” declared Maric.  
“You are too kind, your majesty. I apologize for this happening. I should have informed my wife, you did give me permission. It is my fault alone,” Eamon stated.  
“Nonsense, Eamon. We are both to blame. He will be fine. I will see to it myself. Continue to monitor the boy as before; see that he wants for nothing. Thank you for being so quick to inform me.”  
“You are welcome, your majesty. Good day.” With that Eamon turned and left the audience chamber.  
When the Arl had left, Maric found he was suddenly restless again. He paced up and down in front of the dais deep in thought. Finally he reached a decision, crossed the room and rang the little silver bell sitting on a table.  
His steward was quick to enter and Maric was just as quick to act, “Tell the Grand Cleric that I wish to see her. Have her brought here at the earliest opportunity. Tell her it concerns an important matter of state.”  
The steward replied,” Immediately sire,” and quickly left the room.  
*****  
The Grand Cleric was ushered into Maric’s audience chamber two hours later. She was perplexed as to the reason for the meeting as she knew of no existing problems of state that would necessitate her involvement. Orlais perhaps? Something new?  
The chief steward announced her presence and she was led into the room. Maric was sitting on the throne seated on the dais. Unusual as she was sure she’d heard him say he hated the chair and he never used it except for state functions. She approached the dais and bowed.  
Maric rose and slowly descended the steps to until he stood face to face with her. “I have an important matter to discuss that is for your ears alone. It has come to my attention that you have recently accepted a new recruit from Redcliffe,” he said.  
“You must mean Recruit Alistair. A bright boy. I see great things for him with us,” she replied.  
Maric looked her over to see if that were true. He was aware it was, but did not believe others thought the same of the boy. Most reports said that Alistair was considered a troublemaker and wouldn’t amount to anything. Flattery or just caution on her part? He played his ace.  
“He is my son,” he revealed.  
There weren’t many things that could cause this Grand Cleric to lose her composure. She had faced down armies of Orlesians with just words, but an utterance of this magnitude from this king was one of them. She blanched and stuttered her words, “Of…of course, your majesty. I can see the resemblance.”  
Maric ignored her stammering and continued, “He is my illegitimate son. His mother has entrusted his care to me as she is unable to do so herself. Her identity is not important. His identity is. It MUST be kept secret. There are powers in this land who would harm or use him to hurt Ferelden, and that must not happen. I am entrusting his care and safety to you until such time as it is safe for me to publically acknowledge him. “  
“It would be a great honor for us to be entrusted with so valuable a student as he,” she was flattering him and he didn’t like it.  
“During his stay with you, no one is to know who he is. He is Alistair of Redcliffe, Templar recruit, and nothing other. He is to be treated the same as all the other recruits at the school. Do you understand?”  
“Yes, your majesty,” was the answer.  
Maric straightened himself to his full height, looking down at the woman as he pronounced the next, “Under no circumstances is he to be allowed to take holy orders and become a full Templar. If he does, whether through his choice or yours, the Crown will withdraw all support of your order within Ferelden. Tithes will stop and your charities will fold. Do I make myself clear, your grace?”  
The Grand Cleric of Ferelden was not used to threats and if made by anyone else, would have become incensed and had the person “handled.” But the King of Ferelden was no mere man; if his support was withdrawn everything he said would happen and the Chantry would fall. She was in a corner and she knew it.   
“It will be done as you order, your majesty. I will oversee the boy’s welfare personally, without his knowledge,” she declared, bowing low before him.  
“See that you do, your grace,” was his reply and with that he left her alone in the chamber, staring at the throne on the dais, listening to the wheel make another turn.


	7. Alistair the Recruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

Alistair the Recruit

The next six years were the hardest Alistair had ever experienced.  
First there were the cardinal rules: treat everyone as equals and as you would want to be treated, cleanliness of thought, word, deed and body, respect your elders. Each one had to be memorized and practiced on a daily basis and not just in the classroom, common room and the swords room, but in the dormitories too. Recruits who were caught mistreating others were harshly disciplined.   
Then there was the schoolwork. He didn’t have a lot of trouble except when it came to catechism. Years of not attending Chantry school had caught up to him and he had to study twice as hard as the other recruits. When examinations came the first year, Alistair failed his catechism class and was forced to retake it. During the term breaks, the students who had families were allowed to visit them for a few weeks. Alistair had wanted to return to Redcliffe and see his old friends but instead had to use that time to retake the catechism class and learn the Chant of Light. He made short work of the task and vowed he’d never fail another class again.  
Alistair remained at the top of his classes in all other subjects and, while still considered a nuisance by some of the older students, most had learned that he wasn’t so bad and was willing to help any who needed it. This did much to make his life more comfortable at the Abbey.  
Then there was prayer. They prayed. And prayed. And prayed. Sometimes for hours, it seemed. All recruits were required to attend services in the chapel twice daily before breakfast and before dinner. Those who failed to attend were severely punished, as Alistair found out once. He never missed again.  
Probably the worse time he had was during his warfare classes. While he started out ahead of his class, in no time he was behind. As had happened in Redcliffe, his growth spurt was late and he was often too small for many of the drills. When the masters had the recruits pick sparring teams for practice, Alistair was always picked last. He was often depressed as he never felt he would ever amount to anything on a battlefield. Despite his feelings of inferiority, he never gave up or showed that he was weak in any way, just as Master Hamlin had taught him.   
After the first year of learning basics, the sword masters put all the eleven and twelve year olds through a difficult physical examination to determine which specialty they would be best suited for. Once determined, training would concentrate on that particular weapon talent but all weapons would still be practiced with. Alistair was determined to have the best aptitude with a sword and shield. While his reach was poor, he had a wide, strong build that lent itself well to a shield. This satisfied him as it was his favorite.  
Most of Alistair’s free time was spent reading the history and literature he loved so much. Several of his tutors had noticed his love for books and he was occasionally invited to attend the literary meetings held for the senior recruits. He had felt out of place at first, an eleven year old in amongst seventeen and eighteen year olds and they looked down on him, but once they began discussing King Calenhad and his conquests, he had chimed in and given an expert commentary of one of the battles, complete with references. He was a welcome addition to the group from then on.   
Each recruit was required to spend ten hours a week working to improve the conditions at the compound. The jobs were handed out based on experience and knowledge, but when it came to Alistair there didn’t seem to be any that fit well. He had told his superiors that he had experience with animals but the stables were kept by hired stable workers. There were no blacksmiths, merchants, storekeepers, or ale masters in the compound either. All professions he was familiar with. Eventually Alistair’s superiors were forced to place him with the kitchen, laundry and cleaning staffs. All positions he hated with a passion. He scrubbed floors, washed windows, cleaned pots and pans, cut vegetables, and hung up clothes. He made another vow that if he ever left the Abbey he would not cook, wash clothes, or clean floors or windows again.  
At the beginning of his third year at the school, Alistair met Damon. He was the Arl of South Reach’s youngest son who had been sent to the school for much the same reasons as Alistair. He had been out of control and disrespectful of his elders so his father had sent him to the Abbey for the Templars to whip him into shape. He wasn’t a good student or swordsman and did not take any of the cardinal rules seriously when it came to his fellow recruits. This was especially evident to Alistair on a daily basis.  
Damon insisted that Alistair let him “copy” his assignments in mathematics and literature class, something Alistair refused to do. Every day they had the same exchange:  
“Gimme your work, bastard, I didn’t get my done,” demanded Damon.  
“No,” Alistair would reply, “It’s my work.”  
“Gimme your work or I’ll pound you again!” reiterated Damon  
“I said no!” replied Alistair.  
Once in a while, Damon got his way, only because Alistair was tired of arguing or didn’t want to be hit. Most of the time, he got hit but Damon always made sure that it didn’t show and call attention to the trouble he was having.   
In warfare, Damon always found a way to make Alistair his sparring partner, and would beat on him mercilessly, often causing minor injury. The masters would separate them as often as they could, but Damon always seemed to find a way to get to Alistair, causing many sleepless nights and much worry.   
One day, Damon hit Alistair so hard that he fell and hit his head, knocking him unconscious.   
He woke up in the infirmary soon after. “What happened?” he asked groggily.  
“You hit your head during sparring practice, son,” said the mage healer. “Lie back down and drink this draught. You’ll feel much better soon. The boy who hit you has been severely punished and told not to associate with you anymore.”  
“Oh,” said Alistair, dreading the result.   
“Indeed,” said the mage, “The Grand Cleric herself meted out the punishment.”  
When Alistair returned to sparring practice a few days later, he found that even though Damon was forbidden to come near him he still managed to if only to spit out a threat,” I’ll get you bastard, just wait and see.” He didn’t make good on the threat and soon found someone else to torture, but Alistair was always wary after that.  
The most significant part of his training during these years was the beginning of the fifth year. All fifth year recruits were examined and studied to determine if they had any magical abilities. Those who were known to have even the slightest aptitude for magic were chosen to be taught specialized Templar anti-magic spells, or as they were known in the compound, the Talents. They included the powerful spells Holy Smite and Cleanse Area and were the Templar’s most important and most secret methods of defense against magical attack. Most of the classwork involved learning meditation and concentration techniques which Alistair found difficult at first but after much practice, found that it was not so hard after all. He was able to draw on the experiences from his life at Redcliffe and the Abbey to help him, the feelings of loneliness especially. 

Once he’d mastered meditation and concentration he was pulled aside and taught techniques that would allow him to draw on the small amount of magical abilities he possessed. During examinations however, it was discovered that Alistair possessed an unusually high aptitude for magic. This resulted in a visit to the Grand cleric’s office by Arl Eamon.

Eamon had received the summons at his Denerim estate from the Templar compound requesting that he attend the Grand Cleric as soon as possible to discuss matters associated with the “dagger.” Eamon had become alarmed at the mention of Alistair’s code word, and responded immediately to the missive. The next morning found him in the Grand Cleric’s office.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, your grace?” asked an astonished Eamon.

“If you are referring to the fact that I believe the boy is a mage, then no, I am not saying that,” she replied. “I simply need to know if there is mage blood in the boy’s line. He has been discovered to have an extremely high aptitude for magic, higher than any Templar known or on record. While this is not a bad thing, he may need to be examined further to determine the degree of this magical talent. If it is too high, he will need to be sent to the Circle.”

Eamon felt the blood rush from his face and had the sudden urge to sit down. The Grand Cleric sensed his distress and guided him to a settee on the near wall, then poured him a glass of water and handed it to him. “A mage. Maric’s son is a mage,” was all he could think. Eamon began to wish the glass contained more than just water but he downed the offered beverage, composed his face and addressed the concerned woman. “His mother is a mage,” he said softly, “Elven.”

The grand lady considered what she had just heard. “The elves are known to possess great magical abilities. Even those who are not considered mages have magic in them. The most powerful mages I have ever known are elven. It is there his abilities lie.” 

The Arl thought a moment then shook his head. “If the boy were a mage, wouldn’t this fact have manifested itself when he was younger?”  
The Grand cleric sat down on the settee next to the Arl. “Most of the time, yes, but once in a while it happens later, when the child begins to enter adulthood. Not to say this is the case, but often the late bloomers are the most dangerous. Young adults are often most at risk for spirit possession. Their emotional states are the most delicate making it easier for demons and spirits to prey on them. It is why mages are not allowed to enter the Fade until they have reached adulthood and are in more control of themselves and their actions.”  
Eamon hung his head, his worry for Alistair written on his face. “He is in danger?” he asked meekly.  
She paused before saying the next, choosing her words carefully so as not to cause more strain on the already alarmed Eamon, “Not at the moment. We will continue to…monitor him. I will have the instructors begin to teach him the Talents and we shall see then if it is only a small ‘gift’ and not true magic present in the boy. I will send you frequent updates on the boy’s progress. Try not to worry. Shall we notify his majesty of this latest development?”  
“Maker no!” exclaimed Eamon. “I mean…I have no idea what this revelation will mean to the King. Best watch the boy and report to him if there are more problems.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his sleeve. “I will be at my estate here for the next month. You may reach me there or at the palace at any time, your grace. I thank you for your discretion and kindness in this matter. I know you have the boy’s welfare at heart.”  
“I have become fond of the boy myself,” she confided. “He has a good heart.”  
As time passed, Alistair got another growth spurt and soon caught up with the other students in his sparring ability. Soon he was considered one of the best at sword and shield technique, even though he still struggled with strength and growth issues.   
He remained at the top of his class in all his subjects and had even begun to help tutor and mentor younger students who had trouble. His easy-going manner and good humor made him popular among the younger recruits as he made the subjects more fun with his expert knowledge of history to use as examples.   
He excelled at learning the Talents as was expected but further observations and examinations showed no sign that he was a mage, just incredibly gifted. His superiors and the Grand Cleric were still cautious and continued to watch him in case his status changed. It never did.  
Others in Alistair’s Talents class were not so lucky though. During a routine practice of the Holy Smite Talent, one of the recruits collapsed from what appeared to be exhaustion and had to be taken to the infirmary. An examination of the boy found he had been ingesting tainted lyrium potions resulting in a serious illness and near death. While lyrium was widely used by the older Templars to enhance their abilities, it was forbidden for recruits to even possess the substance as its effects were dangerous in young people. Several of the recruits were found to have been in possession of the lyrium and a smuggling ring was suspected but could not be discovered. There were many weeks of unannounced inspections and all recruits were examined by the healer for lyrium poisoning. Alistair began to worry that when he took holy orders he would not be able to bring himself to take lyrium as the result of this experience, and vowed to avoid it.  
At the end of his fifth year, Alistair was promoted with honors from Recruit to Novice. This meant his studies would become more intense and begin to focus on combatting dark magic, demons and abominations, as well as combat and the Templar Talents. He looked forward to the new challenges facing him but had begun to have doubts about his place in the order as the result of the intense scrutiny regarding his magical ability. He was disturbed by the hatred his Templar superiors had for mages and their abilities and could not understand why. They were just people, right?  
Still, while those six years may have been difficult, they went by fast, turning the wheel ever so slightly forward again.  
 


	8. In the Garden of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

In The Garden of Love

Alistair’s wheel was getting a little squeaky.  
He’d come to the decision that the Abbey was a prison not a refuge. Refuge implied that you wanted to be here, something that he discovered he did not. Many of his classmates were allowed regular visits with their families outside of the Abbey, something he wasn’t as he didn’t have a family to visit. The Arl was kind enough to invite him to visit Redcliffe and the estate, but he had never really forgiven him for being the reason he was in the Abbey in the first place, so he declined, gracefully. Eamon had tried several times to visit Alistair but each time was sent away with the message that the boy was occupied and did not wish to be disturbed. Eventually a reluctant Eamon stopped trying and relied on the regular missives sent by the Grand Cleric as the only information he would receive on the boy.  
When he was promoted to novice, he was allowed to spend one Saturday a month outside of the Abbey, exploring the city of Denerim. However, in the three months since the term started, he had never had a one moment outside of the compound.   
First, there was the time one of the older novices had talked him into standing watch for him that day so he could visit with his parents who had come to town unexpectedly. Alistair was furious to find out later that the “parents” were actually a well-known prostitute named Lola who had a fondness for Templar recruits.   
The second time he had become ill with a bad cold and since the weather that day was rainy and miserable, had been ordered by the mage healer to stay in bed. “Okay,” he thought to himself, “I’ll give you that one,” and he did as he was ordered and went bed.  
Today was the worst. He and three other boys had been fortunate enough to procure tickets to a circus that was setting up camp near the compound. They had been looking forward to their day off for weeks and when the day came, they were up, dressed, and nearly out the door when Alistair was stopped by Sister Genevieve bearing a message that the Grand Cleric wished to see him.   
“You must be joking,” he complained. “I was just on my way to the circus. Can’t this wait Sister?”  
“The Grand Cleric thought you would say that and told me to inform you that you were to come at once, day off or no. Best not keep her waiting ser. Wash your hands and face,” she added.  
Alistair did as she bade and soon was waiting outside the Grand Cleric’s office for his meeting. He had waited for over two hours when Sister Genevieve appeared from around the corner, “The Grand Cleric extends her most humble apologies but she is detained and will have to postpone your meeting. She will be in touch with you to reschedule.” He was crushed. It was too late to go to the circus now, it was probably nearly over, he thought. I’ll never get out of here.  
Unbeknownst to Alistair, those incidents had been carefully planned by the Grand Cleric. She had received word from the King that situations outside of the Abbey had become more dangerous and it was His Majesty’s desire to keep Alistair as safe as possible. Therefore, she had plotted to keep him from leaving the compound on his days off. She knew she would have to come up with a reason for keeping him on the next day but had no idea that he would find the reason himself.  
Sixteen year old Alistair was in love.   
He’d looked at the work assignments for the week and was disappointed to find he was back in laundry. “You’d think they would learn not to put me there after last time,” he thought. He’d managed to ruin an entire load of white clothes that had been set to boil by accidentally adding a pair of bright blue wool socks to the kettle. The result was a pretty blue hue added to the senior Templars’ small clothes. He’d had to scrub every article of clothing in the kettle with bleach to remove the stain. Now he had to go back for another week. “Delightful,” he thought.  
After class that afternoon he changed into his work tunic and headed to the laundry room in the basement of the main hall. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of bleach and lye soap that assaulted his nostrils half-way down the stairs. “I hate this place,” he thought furiously and entered the laundry room.  
A half dozen workers were scattered around a large cistern full of water used for rinsing and were busy ironing, scrubbing, stirring pots and wringing out wet items. Several fires had been stoked against one wall where kettles filled with boiling laundry were steaming. Alistair looked around for the head laundress.  
“Oh not you again,” she declared, “I thought I told them not to send you anymore. We’re still working on that last mess you made. Well, no matter, any help is appreciated right now, even yours. Take that large basket out to the lines and hang everything up, Get going!”  
Alistair grabbed the basket in question and lugged it out the door and up the stairs to the clothes lines out back of the building. He found an empty line and began to hang the heavy sheets and blankets up.   
A sudden breeze came up and began to blow the clothes to and fro on the line. The sheets became more and more difficult for one person to handle and he wished someone would come along that could help him. All at once a huge gust of wind came up and he was hit by a large wet blanket that had flown at him from the other end of the clothes line. He was knocked off his feet and struggled, sputtering, trying to untangle himself from the blanket. Soon he felt a pair of hands not his own pulling at the blanket, trying to remove it from him, and a voice that was repeating apologies.   
Finally disentangling himself from the blanket he looked up at his rescuer to see the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.  
She was taller than most elves, with golden blond hair and deep blue eyes. She worked in the laundry washing, ironing, and folding clothes. Raised in a Chantry orphanage since she was a baby, she had learned a trade and been fortunate enough to secure a position at the Abbey laundry.   
“Oh ser!” she cried worriedly, “Are you hurt?”  
Alistair was speechless and just sat there staring at the girl. “I could swim in those eyes,” he thought. Then realized he was expected to answer but could only stutter.   
“I..I..I’m okay. I think.”  
“Are you sure? I could go get the healer if you are unwell. It is my fault, I couldn’t control the blanket in this wind,” she explained, holding out her hand to help him up.  
He looked at the hand offered to him and just stared for a moment. Catching himself, he reached up and took it. It was warm and soft and he didn’t let go right away. “Thank you,” he said. He looked down and saw he still held her hand and let it go, blushing.  
The girl smiled at him shyly. “You are welcome, ser. Are you sure you are all right?” she asked, concern in her voice.  
Alistair smiled his biggest smile, “Nothing but my pride,” he laughed, and she smiled and laughed too.  
The girl bent to pick up the flyaway blanket but Alistair was there first, “Please allow me,” he said. She smiled again and nodded, stepping back a little to make room.  
The blanket retrieved, both young people stood and looked at each other for what seemed like hours but was only seconds. Sensing an impasse, Alistair searched for the next topic of conversation.  
“Perhaps if we work together, we can get both loads up,” he suggested.  
“All right,” said the girl, “That would be better.”  
The two picked up the scattered clothes and began to hang them up on the line. It took both of them to hang the sheets and blankets. Soon they were chatting about the weather, the Abbey, the Templars and the Chantry among other things.  
“So you are going to become a knight?” she asked. “You must have to be very brave to do that. Will you be hunting mages?”  
“I will be a knight, once I have finished my training and passed my requirements. I suppose I will be hunting mages too, but that’s not all we do,” he answered. He had moved closer to her and was able to smell her. She smelled like the fresh-cut hay in the field near Lana’s farm in Redcliffe, clean and unspoiled. He wanted to bury his face in her hair.  
For her part, the girl wasn’t discouraging. She enjoyed this young novice’s company, he didn’t seem to care that she was an elf and a servant.  
“What’s your name?” Alistair asked.  
“Kyanna,” she replied.  
“I’m Alistair. Pleased to meet you.” He offered his hand and she took it and didn’t let go right away.  
*****  
For the rest of the week, Alistair had no complaints about having to work in the laundry. Kyanna would be there. He often helped her with whatever task she had been set to and they would chat while they worked. He told her stories of his life in Redcliffe and tales gleaned from the history and literature books he loved so much. She told him stories of the orphanage, which she said wasn’t really that bad. She also knew tales of the Dalish elves, as a few of the orphanage sisters had been Dalish and often shared their stories. Alistair was enthralled and so in love.  
At the end of the week, he had looked at the following week’s work assignments and was crushed to see he was assigned to the kitchen staff. He quickly checked to see who had been assigned and saw that it was a large red-haired novice named Landon.  
“Guess who’s got the laundry next week,” Alistair said to the boy, cunningly.  
“Let me guess,” replied Landon, “Me. Damn! The soap makes my skin itch and they always set me to scrubbing.”  
Alistair knew an opportunity when he saw it. Lloyd at the tavern in Redcliffe had been a good teacher. “Perhaps I can help you out there,” he told the other, “Maybe a trade?”  
“What do you want?” asked Landon suspiciously. “I’m broke.”  
“Make my bed for the week and I’ll work in the laundry,” proposed Alistair.   
Landon pondered the offer and agreed. “What’s an extra bed compared to itching for a month?” Alistair could barely contain his happiness.  
The following Monday afternoon, Alistair appeared before the head laundress for his weekly work assignment. “Thought I was getting the big red-haired one this week,” she asked, “not you.”  
“We traded. He’s in the kitchen this week,” answered Alistair, his eyes searching the room for Kyanna. “The soap makes him itch anyway.”  
“If he’d actually use some, he’d get used to it soon enough,” she commented sarcastically. “Go help the elf stir those pots while they boil.”   
For the rest of that week, Alistair was in heaven in the laundry, which had become his favorite place in the compound. Many times he had to be reminded that his work time was up and he had to go dress for chapel. He would always reach out, secretly take Kyanna’s hand and squeeze it before he left. “Tomorrow?” he’d ask hopefully.  
“Please,” she’d say softly, and squeeze back. “I can hardly wait,” and his heart fluttered.  
On Friday, he finally got the courage to ask her a question that had been mulling in his head for days. “Would like to go for a walk in the garden sometime? In the evening?”  
He’d been spending his free time reading all the romances he could find in an attempt to find the best and most romantic way to ask a girl to walk out with him. Poetry was a bust and since most of the stories had the heroes and heroines dying in the end, they were moot too. So he decided the direct approach was the way.  
Kyanna quickly got a worried look on her face. “Recruits and servants aren’t really supposed to ‘walk out’ together. I could get you into trouble. I rather die than that!”  
“There’s nothing in our rules that says we can’t,” he assured her. He’d spent two hours looking the night before. “Are there in yours?”  
“No, I never saw or heard that. It’s just…I’m an elf and you’re human and noble. That wouldn’t work,” she said, tears in her eyes.  
Alistair reached over and dried her tears with his handkerchief, placing his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re an elf. I’m not noble, just a bastard son who never knew his parents. Just for an hour, at eight o’clock, near the fountain.”  
Kyanna reached up and covered Alistair’s hand with her own, “All right. I’ll be there.”   
Later that night they met as arranged near the fountain. The mood was different here and both of them were hesitant and unsure what to say or do. They walked quietly side by side until they came to a stop in front of a rose bush in full bloom. The blossoms were fragrant and Alistair could not resist reaching over and picking the biggest and best one. He pulled out his knife and cut the bloom from the vine, then carefully removed all the thorns and gave it to Kyanna. She blushed at such a gift and whispered, “Thank you, Alistair. It’s beautiful.”  
He caught up her hand and drew her over to a darkened corner in the rear of the garden. He turned towards her then took his hand and placed it on her cheek, gazing into her eyes. “The first time I saw you I thought I could swim in your eyes, they are so blue,” he said softly, his voice husky with emotion. “They are so beautiful.”  
“When I first saw you, I thought you were a knight come to rescue me,” she replied softly, “You are.”  
“I’ll always rescue you,” he promised and lowered lips to hers, kissing them softly. Kyanna was slightly startled but did not break away, instead putting her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. He reached around with both hands and held her, each of them drawing strength from the other as they kissed.   
The walks in the garden became a regular occurrence for Alistair and Kyanna and became longer as time went on. They still talked, but the subjects had changed to the future and what it held. When Alistair’s day off came, the Grand Cleric was surprised to see that he had not requested a pass to leave the compound. Sister Genevieve had checked and he had decided not to go out that day and would instead stay in and read his latest book and practice his Talents. The Grand Cleric was relieved she would not have to come up with an excuse to keep him in again.   
Alistair had a plan for his day off and it did not involve leaving the compound. All week he and Kyanna had been smuggling food and hiding it in their rooms. At the end of the week, they had enough for a large meal of cheese, bread, meat and fruit. With water from the well to drink, they would have a picnic in the garden and spend the whole day there, together and alone.   
On Saturday morning, the other novices practically ran from the compound, eager to get started on whatever mischief they had planned. He had gone back to bed after breakfast and was feigning sleep as the rest of them were preparing to leave. “I can’t believe you are staying here all day, Alistair. You must be nuts!” exclaimed Wallis, a skinny brown-haired boy from Amaranthine. Alistair just moaned groggily and rolled over.   
“Suit yourself,” said Wallis and left.  
After about a half-hour, Alistair jumped out of bed, dressed, shaved, washed and grabbed the bag with the hoarded food. He ran out the door and went to the garden.  
She was there waiting. Kyanna had dressed in a blue dress the color of her eyes. It was not like the dresses she wore to work in. It was her good dress, she said, my best for you. He smiled and kissed her in greeting.  
They spent the whole day wandering in the garden together and, although it was not that big, it was a whole world to them. Alistair felt she belonged here as if she had been grown, picked, and placed here for him to find, delicate and sweet. They ate in the shade of the tamarind tree, and rested in the corner in each other’s arms. It was the happiest day he’d ever had.  
For her part, Kyanna was enchanted by the young novice. He’d told her of his life, how his mother had died and the rumors about the Arl being his father. Alistair had told her that he no longer believed the rumors, as he knew he looked nothing like Eamon and couldn’t be his son. He supposed that the Arl was right, Edgar was his father, Maker keep him. He had had such a sad life and told her that everyone he loved had left him. “I won’t leave you; I won’t die,” she had promised. Alistair had kissed her for that.  
When the day was over and it was time to leave, they promised to meet the next evening in the usual place and had kissed and kissed until they had to go. They parted slowly and left to go to their rooms, the smell of roses still in their nostrils.  
But unknown to them, they were not the only visitors to the garden that day. A sinister presence had been observing them, plotting their downfall.  
Three nights later it happened. Alistair had met Kyanna in the garden as usual and they were trysting in their dark corner when they were approached by the head laundress and Ser Boyd, who was in charge of the novices.   
“Come out of there, both of you,” commanded Ser Boyd.  
“What do you have to say for yourself, elf?” questioned the laundress.  
Alistair was afraid for Kyanna and saw that she was shrinking behind him. He took his arm and pushed her the rest of the way back, “You won’t hurt her,” he said firmly.  
“You will not address a senior member of the household staff in that manner, novice,” Sir Boyd commanded.  
Alistair was backed into a corner and there was only one way out he could see. “You have my apologies, mistress, I was out of order. Please, ser, it is my fault, do not blame the girl.”  
“Take the girl back to her quarters and keep her there. Novice, you will follow me,” directed Ser Boyd.  
Alistair turned to Kyanna and saw the fear and tears in her eyes. He placed his hand on her cheek and whispered, “Go. It will be all right. I promise.” She covered his hand with her own then followed the head laundress out of the garden, looking back once more at Alistair before she was out of sight.  
“Please ser, what will happen to her? Will she come to any harm?” Alistair asked, nearly pleading.  
“Her fate is not in my hands, but no I am sure she will not be harmed. Follow me,” he commanded.  
Ser Boyd led Alistair upstairs to the Grand Cleric’s office on the second floor. Ser Boyd indicated Alistair should sit on the bench outside and wait then he entered the office. Sister Genevieve sat at her table a short distance away. Alistair looked at her, his eyes begging for information, but she only shook her head. He was on his own this time.  
A few minutes later the door opened and Ser Boyd bade Alistair to enter. The Grand Cleric sat at her desk writing on a scroll. After a minute, she put down her pen and looked at Alistair, a tired and disappointed look on her face. “Please, leave us alone, Ser Boyd, thank you,” she said. Ser Boyd saluted and left the room.  
When the door was shut, the Grand Cleric rose from her chair and walked to the door and shot the bolt. She paused a moment then turned around and looked at the the boy in front of her. She was reminded of a time years before when this same boy stood in the center of this same room, defiant and stubborn. The defiance was still there, along with the stubbornness, but both were masked under years of discipline and control. The eyes gave away the pain, just as they had those years before.  
“Tell me about her, son,” she asked quietly.  
“I love her, your grace,” he said plainly.  
“I see that, my son. It is not forbidden to love here, but both of you were outside of quarters after hours. That is forbidden. How long has this been going on?”   
“A few months, your grace. We met in the laundry when I was on work detail.”  
“You have always met in the garden?” she inquired.  
“Always, your grace,” he answered, then added “She is still a maiden.”  
The last caught the woman by surprise. She had intended to ask the question but was not prepared for the boy to offer the information up front. Clearly this was not an ordinary relationship.   
Alistair asked the question the preyed most on his mind. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but for her. “What will become of her, your grace? She is blameless. I led her astray. It is my fault.”  
“She will not be harmed, my son, but she will be sent elsewhere,” the Grand Cleric declared, “It is necessary.”  
“Can’t you just send me away? It was my fault! Please, your grace! Don’t punish her!” pleaded Alistair.  
“It has already been done.”  
Alistair ran to the window at the back of the room and looked out on the courtyard. He saw two Templar knights on horseback leading a small pony behind them. Seated on the pony was a girl. Kyanna. He bowed his head until it rested on the glass and closed his eyes. Another love had left.   
After his meeting with the Grand Cleric, Alistair was free to return to his quarters. Instead he found himself wandering into the chapel as he had years before. He sat on the bench next to the dais and looked up at the statute of Andraste that stood there. She had freed the slaves and created a free world for all men, but he wasn’t free and neither was Kyanna. They were trapped with no way out. Tears fell as he lost all hope.   
Just as before there was the sound of quiet footsteps coming down the aisle toward him. He didn’t look up as he felt the soft arms of Sister Genevieve wrapping around him, comforting his sorrows.  
*****  
The next couple of days were foggy. He attended to his lessons and duties but seemed to be going through the motions in his life. There was no reason to hope any more. Damon had suddenly become interested in him again, which had only made his misery worse. He teased and goaded Alistair at every chance and when Alistair refused to answer or respond, Damon pressed harder. Alistair’s life had become nearly unbearable with grief and depression.  
A week or so later, Alistair found himself sparring one of the other boys. His mind wasn’t really on his business and he was making many foolish mistakes. The boy took advantage and knocked him down three times before the master called a halt to the action. “Get your mind right, boy,” he chided Alistair, “or get yourself killed.”  
Alistair saluted his partner and thanked him for the bout then returned to the bench against the wall. As he walked back he passed the surly form of Damon who was more pleased with himself than usual. “I hear your little girlfriend got sent away, bastard. That must have been fun to see.”  
Alistair whirled at him. The Grand Cleric had said it was a private matter so no one except she, Ser Boyd, the head laundress, Alistair and Kyanna knew. How did Damon?  
“What did you do?” he demanded.  
“Sent your little playmate away, bastard,” Damon replied, laughing.  
Alistair had not lost his temper in a long time but it was long overdue. He raised his sword and shield and started after Damon, hatred burning in his eyes. Damon had a split second to act and raised his shield for the onslaught. Alistair struck with his sword, striking Damon’s shield with a force that staggered the boy backwards. Damon drew his sword and swung at Alistair, missing him and his shield. Alistair took advantage of the Damon’s missed stroke and used his shield to bash him backwards and cause him to fall. Damon fell to the ground, dropping his shield and weapon in the process. Alistair moved in for the kill, stopping just short of cutting Damon’s throat. Fear was so strong in Damon you could smell it and he raised both hands in a sign of submission. Alistair paused for a moment then retreated, dropping his weapons to the ground. He took one last look at Damon, turned, and walked out the door of the practice room.  
The swords masters helped Damon up off the floor and were brushing him off when they discovered the secret he had been hiding and the reason for his feelings of superiority. Lyrium. After the tainted lyrium incident the previous year, the superiors had not been able to discover who was smuggling it into the compound. They finally had their man and Damon’s days at the compound came to an end.  
For Alistair, it was also an ending of sorts. He had learned both the pleasures and pain of love, something he would come to know better in the coming years but had also come to the decision that he might never find it as he probably wasn’t supposed to. His life was about to take an about face and the wheel turned.  
 


	9. Revelations and Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

Revelations and Decisions  
Alistair never dreamed he’d hear what he was about to hear.   
Two days after the incident with Damon at the sparring, he was summoned to the Grand Cleric’s office for an urgent discussion with her grace. He had been relieved of duty and had been confined to quarters during that time and had spent his time reading and just sitting. Twice he’d sent prayers to the Maker for Kyanna’s safety and well-being but never sent one for himself. He didn’t care anymore if he lived or died. He dressed, cleaned up and followed Sister Genevieve to the second floor of the main building.  
The sister stopped him in front the office door and looked up at him. He’d grown so much in the last years that it was hard to see the boy he’d been so long ago. She smiled at him with her soft understanding smile and he managed to return one himself, albeit a very small and short one. There was hope there after all, she thought. She squeezed his hand, dropped it, opened the door and announced him.  
The Grand Cleric stood in the middle of the room chatting with the Arl. He should have known Eamon would have been summoned; after all he had nearly killed another recruit. Such a thing was going to get his guardian involved. He saluted the Grand Cleric and greeted the Arl.  
“Good morning, Novice Alistair, thank you for coming,” welcomed the Grand Cleric. “We wish to talk to you of some weighty matters.”  
“Yes, your grace,” he replied. He glanced at the Arl out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge just how weighty the matters were, but Eamon was impassive.   
“Arl Eamon has requested to speak to you. I know you have not been on good terms with each other over the last few years, but I ask you to hear him out. Will you do that?” she asked.  
“If that is your grace’s wish, then yes, I will,” he answered.   
The Grand Cleric turned to Eamon, nodded, then walked to door, opened it, and turned to face her guests, “I will leave you gentlemen alone. Sister Genevieve is outside; please let her know if you need anything.” That said, she left, closing the door softly behind her.  
The silence in the room was broken only by the ticking of the clock sitting on the desk, and with each tick began to sound like a battering ram pounding on a door. Eamon cleared his throat and made the first move, “You are well, I see.”  
“Yes, thank you, my lord,” was the quiet answer.  
“I am glad to hear it after your recent…troubles.” Eamon fished carefully for the next words, “I am sorry about the girl, Alistair, I know she meant much to you.”   
Alistair turned to look at his guardian. His face had aged much in the last few years, much of it thanks to Alistair. He looked into the man’s eyes and realized that this was a man who understood his loss, one who could sympathize.   
Eamon continued, “There was a girl I met in the Free Marches. Her name was Adele. She had golden brown hair with eyes to match and I thought she was the only girl I would ever love. My father was here in Ferelden fighting the Orlesians with my sister. Teagan and I had been sent to the Free Marches to stay with friends for safe keeping. Adele and I met in the local Chantry where she had gone for prayers. It was love at first sight for both of us.”  
Alistair’s eyes opened wide and he was mesmerized by what he was hearing. The Arl, in love, and not with Isolde?  
“Her father was the local blacksmith in the village where we stayed,” Eamon continued, “He was a good man and she was pious and good too. But she was not considered suitable to be the wife of a future Arl. We were caught together in a…compromising position by her father. He had every right to demand I marry Adele and I wished to do so desperately but he did not. My guardian was furious with me for placing myself and him in such a position but all I wanted was Adele. She had been taken to Starkhaven by her father and I learned soon after that she had married a local merchant there. I also found that her dowry had been funded by my guardian; else she wouldn’t have been able to make such a match. I thought my whole life had ended and I would never love another again. I was seventeen.”  
Alistair listened to the Arl and realized how wrong he had been about this man. Eamon had taken him in when no one else wanted him and tried to make a life for him. While that life had been hard and lonely sometimes, if it hadn’t been for the Arl, he never would have met some of the people he’d known: Aaron, Lana, the Grand Cleric, Sister Genevieve, and the King. He felt a pain in his heart when he realized that Kyanna was on that list too. Without Eamon, he would never have met her. He also understood that it had not been easy for Eamon to have him around, his marriage, friendships and many other relationships had been affected by Alistair’s presence, yet Eamon had not sent him away. He had kept him there.  
“Does the hurt go away, my lord?” Alistair asked quietly.  
“Hurts like ours never go away completely, son, we learn to live with them as you learned to live without Aaron and your mother. They are what make us stronger men.”  
“I…I do not think I’m supposed to find love, your grace. Those I love leave me. I guess…I’m fine with that, it will make me a better soldier,” Alistair pointed out sadly.  
Eamon looked at the boy, “No,” he thought, “Not a boy, young man now.” The next words came easier for him.  
“Never give up on love, Alistair. It is the only thing that makes the world a better place. You will love again. Of that I am certain. This, too, shall pass.”  
Alistair looked back at the Arl and hoped everything the Arl had said was true. He would be all right in the end. Perhaps love did exist for him out there in the wide, wide world. He’d have to get there to find it though  
Alistair thought it a good time to change the subject, “How long do I have to stay here, my lord?”   
“It isn’t up to me, Alistair, it is up to your father,” was the answer.  
If you had shot a bolt from a ballista at Alistair just then, it would have bounced off, so stunned was he by the Arl’s last utterance. It seemed like a good reason to sit down, so he did.  
“My…my…father?” he stammered  
Eamon smiled at the response. “Yes, son. Your father.”  
“You know who he is?”  
“I have always known who he is. For that I must beg your humble forgiveness, I was under oath and couldn’t tell you,” replied Eamon. “It is not an easy thing to tell you now.”  
Alistair looked up at Eamon, who sat down next to him on the settee. “Who is my father, my lord?”  
Eamon paused then announced his answer, “You are the son of a serving girl from my kitchen staff and Maric, King of Ferelden.”  
Hyperventilation was often the result of sudden fright but for Alistair, it was the result of the last sentence that had been spoken by Arl Eamon. He sputtered and choked trying to find his voice and breath. Eamon rose and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk and handed it to him. Alistair took a deep drink and looked up at Eamon, “I’m a prince?” he exclaimed unbelieving.  
“You are the son of King Maric, half-brother to Prince Cailan, the heir to the throne.”  
“Why wasn’t I ever told this before?” asked a still unconvinced Alistair.  
Eamon decided there would be no more lies between them and spoke, “There are powers that might have harmed you or sought to use you against Maric or even Cailan. Your life was very likely in danger and may still be. You were hidden to protect you. Redcliffe was chosen to be your…refuge and I your guardian. It has worked well so far.”  
“So why tell me this now?” asked Alistair, puzzled.  
“The King left it up to me to tell you when I thought you were ready. You are. Recent events have shown me you are capable of understanding and living with that knowledge. There are some other points you should be aware of, though.”  
Alistair’s eyebrows rose. “Such as?”  
“You must never assume or even believe you will ever be king. You are considered a commoner despite who your father is. The best you can hope for is perhaps a minor title in recognition of your status as a royal…pardon the expression …bastard. This is important for you to remember.”  
“So what becomes of me now?” he asked.  
“Your father wishes you to remain here at the Abbey for safekeeping. You will continue your training and proceed with your life as you have been.”  
“And if I don’t want to stay here?”  
Eamon’s eyebrows narrowed, “You have no choice.”  
Alistair’s face fell. He’d had an out, only to have the door slammed and locked in his face. Eamon continued, “There is one other, extremely important thing for you to know. I cannot stress the importance of it enough. You must NEVER tell anyone who you are. It could jeopardize the throne, your father and your life. There are only a handful of people privy to this knowledge and it must stay that way. Do you understand me?”  
“Yes, my lord. Tell no one,” Alistair replied. His demeanor had become more serious, a welcome relief to Eamon.  
“Very well, I will take that as your oath of secrecy. The Grand Cleric is aware of your identity also and will keep an eye on you as she has for the last few years,” disclosed Eamon.  
Gradually many of the incidents and actions taken against him, not against him and on his behalf began to make sense. The Grand Cleric had been covering for him, even protecting him, for years. How many others had done the same? It was almost too much to take into account.  
“I feel I must thank you and apologize for the fact that you have been so kind to me over the years, my lord. I know it has not been easy for you at home or anywhere. Thank you.” Alistair held out his hand in a gesture of apology and friendship.  
Eamon looked at the offered hand and took it, shaking it profusely with happiness. “You are so welcome son. So welcome.” He placed his other hand on Alistair’s shoulder, “I am here for you.” And he was.  
*****  
With many questions answered and his new status to contemplate, Alistair returned to his training at the Abbey. While he still missed Kyanna and dreamed of her often, he had begun to realize that his life must go on, for her sake if no one else. She would not want him to grieve so much on her behalf. So he relearned to keep his chin up and make the best of his situation like he had so many times before.  
Damon’s departure had made life for the Novices much easier as Alistair learned that he was not the only one that was Damon’s target. His thrashing of Damon had earned him the respect he had never had and not just from his fellow recruits, but from his superiors. They admired his tenacity and he was never punished for the incident. No one had been hurt and it had resulted in the discovery of the lyrium smuggler, something the superiors considered far more important. However, he was cautioned not to let it happen again.  
He continued to excel at his training, especially at the Templar Talents. He was promoted to Apprentice and began training to earn his knighthood. At the behest of his tutors, he had begun to conduct study groups for the first year recruits in history and literature and soon found he liked working with the younger students. He remembered how lost and alone he’d been as a first year and attempted to make sure that they didn’t think they were ever alone in their feelings. It worked a charm and many improved in their studies. All thanks to Alistair.  
He had begun to accept his status as royal bastard even though that status had to be kept secret. He found himself taking more pride in himself and his work and the old feelings of inadequacy had begun to recede. He began a regular correspondence with the Arl, and they discussed many things in their letters, including the old topics of literature and history they loved so well. Occasionally Eamon would ask Alistair’s advice on matters of importance and it was always freely and happily given.   
Not long after his seventeenth birthday he was summoned to the Grand Cleric’s office for a meeting. She had received an important message from Eamon regarding “the dagger” as Alistair had discovered was his code word. He would be attending her that afternoon and wished “the dagger” presented to him meaning he wished to speak to Alistair. The use of the code meant that the matter was extremely important.  
Eamon arrived just after lunch. He was dirty and unshaven, having obviously traveled quickly and without stopping. The Grand Cleric quickly poured him a glass of water and led him to the settee.   
“What is it, my lord?” Alistair asked with great concern.  
Eamon was at a loss to tell him. He gathered himself and found the words. “Alistair, your father is dead.”  
Alistair felt Eamon’s pain wash over him. He knew how close Eamon and the king were. Alistair had only met the man two times but both times he had impressed him as good man and kind. He cared. “How did it happen?”  
“He was making a trip to Wycome when it is believed his ship was wrecked. No survivors have been found. He is to be declared dead and Cailan will be king.”  
“Surely there is some hope, my lord?” interjected the Grand Cleric.  
“I fear not, your grace. We have been searching for weeks. Loghain, himself, refused to give up but I know there is no hope. I have been charged with asking you to prepare a service of death.”  
Alistair looked at Eamon, “I am sorry for your loss, my lord.”  
Eamon reached up and placed his hand on Alistair’s arm, “As I am for yours, son.”  
Alistair suddenly realized what that death might mean, “What of me, my lord? What am I to do now?”  
The Arl looked at the young man standing in front him. He had come so far, just in the last year. He had born the burden of his heritage well and without complaint. The reports of his conduct and progress were no less than amazing. But what to tell him of his future?   
“You will remain here for now, Alistair. Cailan does not yet know of your existence. I do not know how he will react. The birth is well-documented so there is no doubt that you are Maric’s son. Best stay here for now.” He addressed the next to the Grand Cleric, “Will that be all right, your grace?”  
“Of course, my lord,” she assured him, “I will watch over him, as I always have.” Alistair felt the comfort in her speech.  
*****  
Maric’s funeral was held the next week in the Grand Cathedral. Since there was no body, a funeral bonfire was lit in his honor in the square in front of the palace. Two days later, Cailan was crowned King of Ferelden, replacing his father. His first act was to declare a one month period of public mourning. At the end of that time, Cailan returned to the Grand Cathedral and married his long time betrothed, Lady Anora Mac Tir, daughter of Teryn Loghain, who returned from his hunt for Maric long enough to see his only daughter wed. The marriage was a welcome joy to the saddened country and it was hoped that the royal couple would present the country with an heir soon.  
For his part, Alistair mourned his father privately. He had heard much of him from the Arl and the Grand Cleric, both of whom knew Maric well, but he had only met him twice himself, the last time when he was nine. He was seventeen now and that meeting was in the dim past. He decided to remember him as best he could, a nice man who gave him a dagger and showed him his menagerie, so he went to the chapel to light a candle for him and say a prayer.  
Eamon received a summons from the young king two weeks later, demanding he come to the palace for an audience regarding “the dagger.” Eamon was apprehensive at best as he read the missive. “Here it comes,” he thought.  
After the steward had announced him and left, Cailan looked at his guest with a look that could only be called puzzled. “I have a brother?” he asked.  
“Half-brother, your majesty. His name is Alistair,” answered Eamon. “He is currently a Apprentice Templar living in the compound here in Denerim. It was the safest place we could find to hide him.”  
Cailan was holding a stack papers that contained the royal seal, Maric’s royal seal. His will. He continued, “He asks me to acknowledge him if he hasn’t already and give him a title and lands. Whether I make him heir is up to me. You knew of this?”  
“Yes, your majesty. I have been responsible for the boy’s welfare since he arrived in Ferelden. He is seventeen now and a most talented and intelligent lad,” answered Eamon.  
The young king knew he was in a place he should not be. Acknowledge this boy as his brother and he risked his own throne. He had already learned in the short time he had worn the crown that there were many who wished it and as many who wanted him gone. A bastard brother would not be a welcome addition to that mess. He addressed the Arl, “How bound am I by this will, legally?”  
Eamon wondered where Cailan was going, “That part is legal but would be impossible to enforce, your majesty. It was created secretly and never filed with the Landsmeet clerk. The proof of Alistair’s parentage has been filed although it is considered a secret file and not available for viewing to the public.”  
“So while I cannot deny that he is my brother, I don’t have to publically acknowledge it. Is that correct?”  
“Yes, sire.”  
“I see.” Cailan began to pace back and forth in front of the dais, much as his father had so many times before, then turned and faced Eamon, “Leave him in the Abbey. All arrangements will stay the same as before. You will continue to act as guardian and I expect regular reports on his progress and activities as before. He is not to take holy orders.”  
“I understand, your majesty,” replied Eamon and bowed.  
Alistair’s fate was sealed, for now.  
*****  
Two years passed and Alistair was still where he had always been. The Abbey. He was facing a new concern though and it was becoming very weighty. What was to become of him?  
Most recruits who passed through the gates of the Templar compound had positions to look forward to in village chantries, the Circle Tower, the various garrisons or the compound itself. These assignments were handed out to apprentices just before they received their full knighthood. After receiving those knighthoods, they would then be sent to their new positions where they would prepare themselves to take holy orders.  
Alistair’s big problem was that no one had ever assigned him to a position. He was still considered a training apprentice even though he had completed all the requirements for his knighthood. It was a puzzling situation. Eventually he confided his concern to the Arl who counseled him to wait and see, they would soon decide what to do. But he was nineteen years old and to his mind, time was running out. He’d learned all they had to teach him and he was running out of books. It was time to take the initiative.  
He had requested a meeting with the Grand Cleric and received her acceptance, so two days later he found himself standing in front of her desk. He saluted her.  
“Good morning, Apprentice Alistair, what can I do for you today?” she asked.  
“Why have I not been assigned a position within the Templar forces, your grace? I have met all the requirements for knighthood, some of them twice over, yet here I am a training apprentice, still,” he stated.  
The Grand Cleric knew she was running out of options with Alistair. He was no longer a boy, but a man. She had to come up with something even though he was forbidden to take orders. “I would like for you to remain here at the compound as an instructor of history and literature as well as the Talents. Would that be to your liking?”  
He thought over the proposal. He would be involved with things he enjoyed but also was good at. He liked teaching the younger students. He was popular with them and did a good job and he was the best in the school at the Talents. But the nagging desire was still there, it wasn’t what he was doing that was the problem, it was where he was doing it. He wanted out of here.  
‘Is there nowhere else I could go?” he asked.  
“Not and do what you are best suited at,” she responded.  
“Very well,” he said unhappily, “I’ll stay.”  
Soon Alistair was teaching classes in history and literature to the first year students. He wasn’t much on disciplining his classes so they were always controlled riots, but they were learning what they needed to know and learning it well. He was satisfied and so were his superiors.   
In the spring, near his twentieth birthday, Alistair received a notice from the Grand Cleric. He was to receive his knighthood. Invitations had been sent to the King and Arl Eamon for the ceremony which would take place in the chapel on his twentieth birthday. The king declined the invitation but was kind enough to send a gift of a fine new dagger with the Templar coat of arms engraved on the blade and Alistair’s initial on the hilt. It was a beautiful piece, but decorative and impractical. Still, Alistair sent a message of thanks to his brother for the thought.  
Arl Eamon accepted the invitation and presented himself on the day in question accompanied by his wife, Arlessa Isolde. She was gracious and kind but Alistair could see the old resentment was still there. She presented him with a silver medal of Andraste and wished him well. Eamon presented him with a suit of the finest splitmail, polished to a shiny bronze color. Alistair was touched by the gift and could not stop thanking the Arl for his kindness. He even donned the Arlessa’s medal which earned him a slight smile from her.  
When his name was called, Alistair approached the dais and knelt before the statue of Andraste. The Knight-Commander of Ferelden tapped his sword on both shoulders and proclaimed him “Ser Alistair of Redcliffe, Knight.” Alistair rose to receive his shield and sword, gifts of the Templar Order. He was a knight at last, and couldn’t help but think of Aaron who had told him the stories of Calenhad and Aveline and he thought of Kyanna, his fair maiden. It was a happy day.  
Once the term was over in May, Alistair had arranged to go to Redcliffe to visit with his old friends and the Arl. A few weeks before he was to leave, he was summoned into the Knight-Commander’s office.   
“I have a problem that I think you will be able to help me with,” declared the Knight-Commander, “We have had an epidemic of fever at the Circle Tower amongst the Templar knights and they need temporary reinforcements until the illness is in check. It should only be a couple of weeks. I am sending you there to help out. You will leave as soon as the term is completed. ”  
Alistair was disappointed that he could not make the trip to Redcliffe right away but he should be able to go once this task was completed. “Of course, Knight-Commander,” he said. “I go as soon as the term ends.”  
Two weeks later found Alistair on a boat in the middle of Lake Calenhad heading to Kinloch Hold, the home of the Circle of Magi. It was eerie to see it and the air was different here, but he was well-trained in dealing with magic so he wasn’t afraid. It was only two weeks.  
He spent his time in the Tower standing night watch, which wasn’t his favorite time as he was certain there were forces at work in the Tower at night that weren’t present during the day. Strange sounds like voices were heard and the wind made a howling sound as it pressed against the widows. The Veil was thinner here and he had been told to exercise caution at all times but his time had been otherwise uneventful so far.  
He’d been in the Tower about ten days when he was summoned into the Knight-Captain’s office and assigned to keep watch at a Harrowing, the ritual used to test mages. He had heard many stories about Harrowings, but had never seen one so he was looking forward to attending as he thought it would be interesting to observe. He had no idea how interesting it would be.  
He reported to the Harrowing Chamber at the top of the Tower at midnight to receive his assignment. He and another Templar were to keep watch and if the mage being tested could not resist the demon placed in her, they were to kill the resulting abomination. Easy enough.  
A few minutes later Knight-Commander Gregoir entered with First Enchanter Irving and a young girl about eighteen years old. She was pale, with long black hair done up in a bun at the back of her head. Her hazel eyes betrayed her fear but she walked up to the font and did as she was told by the Knight-Commander. She touched the lyrium pool in the font and a flash of light occurred. The girl lay on the floor and Alistair moved to help her, but was stopped by the knight next him. “Stay put,” he cautioned, “We have no idea what will happen, and you must be ready.” With that the knight drew his sword, and Alistair followed suit.   
What happened next was the most terrifying thing Alistair had ever beheld. After about half an hour, the girl’s body began to shake and convulse, and she began writhing in agony. In an instant she had changed from the beautiful young girl with the black hair into a hideous creature, trying to coerce them with her voice. Alistair was frozen in place when the creature noticed him and picked him as her target. Visions of Kyanna raced through his head, she was tempting him, begging him to take her, and he felt her hands on his body and her arms encircling him, begging for his kiss, “Love me, Alistair. Everything you want I will give you. Take me love. I am yours,” she said to him.   
Alistair knew this was wrong, Kyanna didn’t want that from him even though he did want it from her. She wouldn’t say those things. With all the strength he could muster, he raised his sword and struck her down, feeling her head cleave under his sword. He staggered backwards, allowing the other knights to finish the abomination off. He dropped to his knees and gasped, realizing what he had done. When he had gained control he rose and looked at the body that lay beside the font. Long black hair streamed from the girl’s severed head; the hazel eyes looked at him lifeless but clear. He ran to the corner and threw up.  
Knight-Commander Gregoir understood the next day when he asked to leave his assignment early. “I have family nearby,” he said. “They need me,” he lied. The Knight-Commander had been present during the Harrowing and saw how distressed it had made him and allowed him to leave.  
Alistair traveled to Redcliffe on foot from the Lake Calenhad docks. He needed time to think and walking would be the way to do it. He thought of the Harrowing, his future and Kyanna. He had to make a decision what to do with his life soon, and he knew the Templars were not the way to go. He continued to walk all the way back to Denerim and by the time he had gotten there, he had decided.   
It was time to go. He was nearly twenty-two years old, a knight. There had to be something better out there and he would find it. He just never thought it would ever find him but it was about to. The wheel turned and the Grey Wardens arrived.


	10. A Worthy Ending and Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

A Worthy Ending and Beginning

Duncan had received the note at the Grey Warden compound just as he was sitting down to dinner. The message said to come at once regarding “the dagger.” Anxiety rose in him as he quickly rose from the table and left, telling Baden he was called to the palace. “Luck to ya, Captain,” said the man as Duncan hurried out.  
Duncan was ushered into Cailan’s rooms almost as soon as he entered the palace. He entered the sitting room to find Cailan pacing in front of the window, worry etched on his brow.   
Duncan saluted his king. “Good evening, your majesty.”  
“He has been discovered,” Cailan declared.  
“Is there a danger?” asked Duncan.  
Cailan stopped pacing long enough to face Duncan, “An assassin has been stopped at the border with orders to kill him. Me, I understand, but why him?”  
Duncan had no real answer to give the King. He had thought the boy was safe where he was. He had been sent elsewhere when his life was in danger before; he would have to be moved again. “He will need to be moved, you majesty.”  
“Where?” demanded Cailan, He’s already in the safest place in the country. I can’t even get to him there. I am beginning to wonder why I am bothering with all this.”  
“He is worthy, sire. A good man. I have seen it myself. You need an heir,” replied Duncan.  
“You have a solution?” inquired Cailan.  
“I think it is time to put my plan in action, your majesty. It will work,” said Duncan.  
Cailan looked at the Warden and realized that he was the only one who could help him. He just wished there was another way. Reluctantly he agreed, “You may do as you wish, Duncan. Maker, I hope you’re right.”  
“I pray I am, sire,” said Duncan, who saluted his king and left.  
Cailan walked to the window and looked out over the city. He closed his eyes and sent a prayer, “Maker, watch over you, Alistair. You’re going to need it.”  
*****  
Alistair had returned to the Abbey after his long walk, determined to find a way out of his predicament. He had planned to start at the top as he could perhaps be able to convince the Grand Cleric to allow him some temporary post time at an outpost somewhere, perhaps a small Chantry. From there it would be an easy enough thing to disappear into the wide world and find his destiny. He had it all figured out.  
A few days later he was preparing for a history class when one of the first year students came running up to him, “Did you hear the news Ser Alistair? The Grey Wardens are coming!” he panted.  
“Hold on, Recruit Warren. A Templar must remain calm. What are you sputtering about?” asked Alistair.  
“The Grey Wardens are coming, Ser. There’s to be a tournament. Maybe someone will be chosen to join!” the boy panted some more and ran from the room to tell others, leaving Alistair in his wake with a puzzled but surprised look.  
“Why would they come here?” asked Alistair at dinner that night.   
Ser Ector, the mathematics instructor answered, “They come every few years or so and look over our recruits. The Grand Cleric always throws a tournament in their honor to show off. Then she refuses to allow them to have anyone they choose. It’s a game to her but they always come back. You aren’t thinking of joining them, are you?”   
Alistair pondered the possibility. “It would be an honor to be chosen to join their order. Why not?”  
“Because they’re mostly thieves, murderers, and blood mages, lad. No knight whose taken orders would join,” said Ser Ector. “No matter how good their reputation.”   
Alistair just nodded his agreement, but the wheels were turning.   
Later, back in his quarters, he lay on his bunk thinking about the Grey Wardens. They battled darkspawn and were heroes of the Blight. Aaron had told him many stories of their deeds. They were peerless warriors and were said to drink darkspawn blood to enhance their abilities. He doubted that last part but the rest seemed quite attractive to him. He may have found another way out.  
Four weeks later found Alistair waiting in the lists for his turn to spar. The tournament was open to anyone provided they had received their knighthood. Templar knights from all over Ferelden had arrived to compete and show their skills to the Grey Wardens. It didn’t look good.  
His name was called and he strode out onto the field to face his foe. He was introduced and saluted the box where the Warden Commander sat alongside the Grand Cleric and the Knight-Commander. His opponent was announced and Alistair winced. Ser Erhyn was a sword and shield master. Alistair had read of her exploits in one of his history books. He was both honored and terrified.   
Ser Erhyn saluted the box then turned and saluted him. The horn sounded and the match began. The rules were standard, fight until one of the participants had five points. Points were given for knocking an opponent down, shield strikes that staggered or body blows that staggered or knocked down. Weapon strikes were hardest for him but he was good with a shield so he hoped he could get at least one blow in.  
The two circled each other, each sizing up their opponent. Alistair began to think they were just dancing when Ser Erhyn moved in quickly and struck his shield hard with her sword. Alistair staggered back to get a better footing only to have her lash out with her shield and bash him to the ground. Two points to none. He recovered quickly and tried a shield pummel move that Ser Erhyn neatly sidestepped, lashing out with the overpower move that staggered him again. Three points to none. She deftly lashed out with her weapon again but Alistair stepped back then moved forward for the shield bash. But his right side was unprotected with his shield out and she was able to force a body block, knocking him down. Four points to none. Finally, he tried an overpower move that was quickly avoided by his opponent who slammed her weapon into his shield, staggering him. Five points, Ser Erhyn. Alistair saluted and thanked her then walked to the waiting area. It was going to be a long day.  
His next opponent was Ser Talrew, hero of the Chasind Conflict, another of his heroes. Ser Talrew was kind enough to allow Alistair some hits on his shield but it was clear none of them were going to stop the man. He made even quicker work of Alistair than Ser Erhyn. A loss, five points to none. Ser Talrew saluted him and thanked him for the bout, but instead of turning and walking back to the waiting area he waited for Alistair.  
“There is no reason for you not to have scored at least two points on me,” he commented.  
Alistair looked at the man and shook his head. “You know, I’m not really a warrior, I teach history and literature here.”  
“And I am a cook,” Ser Talrew said. “We all have jobs we do but once you get that warrior’s training, you are a warrior. They didn’t give you that knighthood because you read more books than anyone; it was because you can fight. Now go fight!” With that he walked off to the refreshment tent leaving Alistair behind.   
His third opponent was to be the great Ser Kalvin, considered the best blade in the country. Alistair had no idea how to beat him or even score a point. He was contemplating this when Ser Talrew appeared and handed him a cup of water. “He’s nearly blind in his right eye, son,” he said. “Injured it in a battle last year but keeps it quiet so he can still win tournaments. Go for the right side.” Alistair smiled and nodded.  
Ser Kalvin may have been nearly blind in one eye but it didn’t affect his strength or speed. He had three points on him in no time at all. Alistair moved to the man’s left, raised his sword to strike, then quickly jumped to the right and connected with a shield bash move. Ser Kalvin staggered back. Three points to one. Ser Kalvin recovered, rushed forward, then used his sword to hit Alistair’s shield twice, staggering him from surprise. Four points to one. Alistair was up and ready. He used shield pummel to busy Ser Kalvin then lashed out with his shield from the right three times, knocking Ser Kalvin to the ground. Four points to two. Ser Kalvin finished Alistair off with a shield bash-weapon combination. Five points to two. And that was it.  
Alistair saluted his opponent and thanked him then made his way back to the holding area. He knew he’d failed to impress anyone today, certainly not himself. He’d been beaten three times and had only scored twice and that because of a fortunate help from Ser Talrew. The Wardens wanted the best warriors, not history teachers who could use a sword. He walked back to his room to clean up for dinner.  
In his room, he sat on his bed and thought of all the years he’d spent in the Abbey, twelve years. He’d lived here longer than anywhere else, he thought. On his walk back from Lake Calenhad he’d seen more of the world than at any time in his life. He wanted more and it was time to go find it. If the Wardens didn’t choose him, he’d volunteer.  
He rose from his bed, opened his locker and pulled out a bag. He sorted through his things, putting selected items in the bag: some books, his father’s dagger, the dagger he’d received from Cailan, grooming needs, and all his spare clothes. He bound the bag and picked it up and carried out to the waiting area. He entered the refreshment tent and deftly took some meat, cheese, bread and fruit and stuffed them in the bag. He walked to the garden and stashed the bag in the place he’d come to call Kyanna’s corner. Then he returned to his room and cleaned up for dinner.  
Dinner was a formal affair with all the knights in their best purple and yellow tunics. Alistair took his place at table with the other instructors and proceeded to eat. It was crowded and hot but he ate as much as he could. It might be a while before he ate again.   
Once dinner was over and the tables were clear the Grand Cleric proposed a toast to the Grey Wardens and their fine contributions. Duncan, the Warden Commander saluted the Templars in his toast. Then the Grand Cleric was ready to finish the night.  
“Tell me Ser Duncan, what do you think of our troops?” she asked.  
Duncan faced her and replied, “They are fine indeed, your grace. Many of them would make fine additions to the Grey Warden ranks.”  
“I take it some have caught your eye?” she questioned.  
“There is one I have my eye on, your grace,” replied Duncan.  
The Grand Cleric saw her opening and dove, “Tell us then, who is this knight you find worthy of addition to your ranks, ser?”  
Duncan paused and turned to face the rest of the knights in the hall. He spoke loudly and clearly so all could hear and be sure, “I choose Ser Alistair of Redcliffe, your grace.”  
Alistair knew he’d heard wrong. There had to be some other knight named Ser Alistair. It was a common enough name, right?  
The knight next to him pounded him on the back while several were heard shouting, “Congratulations, Alistair!” All Alistair could think was that it was time to wake up; this dream had gone on long enough.  
The Grand Cleric looked at Alistair and was livid. It could not happen, her best knight, the king’s own son, a Grey Warden! No!  
“I’m afraid Ser Alistair is not available, Ser Duncan. He has yet to take holy orders so he is still in training.”  
“He is the one I want, your grace,” said Duncan.  
Alistair gained control of himself and stood up from the table. He walked to the front of the room and stopped in front of the main table. He saluted the Grand Cleric and boldly spoke, “If the Grey Wardens will have me, then I will answer their call.” He turned to Duncan, “I am yours ser,” he said.  
“NO!” cried the Grand Cleric, “You cannot have him!”   
Duncan was prepared, “Then with the permission of King Cailan of Ferelden, I invoke the Right of Conscription and hereby conscript Ser Alistair of Redcliffe into the Grey Wardens per his wishes and mine.” Alistair smiled at Duncan as he spoke.  
“Both of you follow me,” ordered the Grand Cleric and stomped out of the room.   
The three of them walked to her second floor office. Alistair noticed they were followed by two armed knights. Once there, she turned to face them both, “You can’t do this, Ser Duncan.”  
“Indeed I can, your grace, and you know I can. I want him,” declared Duncan.  
The Grand Cleric had heard many things in her life but this was the worst. She had to give a king’s son to the Grey Wardens. She looked at Alistair, “Is this truly what you want, Ser Alistair?”  
“Yes, your grace. I want this,” he said defiantly.  
“Then you have a half hour to vacate your things from your room and leave this place, never to return,” she ordered angrily. “You are never to reveal Templar secrets to anyone outside of the order. Guards!” The two guards who had accompanied them entered the room. “Escort these gentlemen off the premises but allow Ser Alistair to pick up his possessions from his room first.”  
Alistair and Duncan were escorted to Alistair’s room where he picked up his remaining items including his sword, shield and his splitmail armor. Duncan helped him carry his things.  
“Wait!” he said, “I have one more thing.”   
Alistair walked outside to the garden and picked up the bag he had stashed there. As he left the garden, he turned and looked to Kyanna’s corner. He gave a silent prayer and said, “Thank you, Kyanna,” and smiled. He knew she’d smiled back.   
Alistair walked to the gate with Duncan and was let out. He turned around and watched as they slammed the iron gate shut behind them and locked it. A smile spread across his face as the reality hit him. “I’m out. It’s over.” He laughed.  
Duncan looked at him as he laughed. He’d met many different types of men in his years with the Wardens, but somehow he thought Alistair of Redcliffe was going to be the most interesting. And the most challenging. Duncan smiled and laughed and put his arm around Alistair’s shoulders.  
“I felt certain she was going to put us in prison. Glad to see she wasn’t serious,” he said.  
“Oh, she was serious,” said Alistair, “but she didn’t want to. She likes me too much.”  
Duncan laughed again and said, “What would she do if she didn’t like you?”  
Alistair thought for a moment. “I don’t know and I don’t want to find out,” and laughed again, Duncan laughing with him.  
“Come along, son and we’ll find us a drink to celebrate. It’s a special day for you. Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Alistair!” He picked up the bag and started walking.   
Alistair took one last look at the place that had been his home for twelve years. “A special day indeed,” he thought, “Destiny, here I come!” he said and he picked up his armor and followed, the wheel turning wide.  
 


	11. The Grey Wardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

The Grey Wardens

Sitting in the tavern later with Duncan, Alistair had begun to wonder if Duncan hadn’t made a mistake. After all, he wasn’t the best warrior; he was decent but not the best. There was a reason.  
“Why me?” he asked.  
“Why me what?” asked Duncan.  
“Why did you pick me? I wasn’t the best there. Not even close. What’s so special about me?”  
“You were what I needed, Alistair.”  
He wasn’t convinced. “So you needed a history and literature teacher in the Grey Wardens. Do you fight darkspawn with pens and books now?”  
Duncan laughed loud and hard, “No, but we could try that sometime.” He suddenly got serious, “I needed a capable warrior who was trained to combat magical attacks. A Templar. You were the best. When faced with opponents that you couldn’t beat, you never gave up and never showed your weakness. And, you have a good heart.”  
Alistair listened to this man and found something in his wisdom. Here was a true judge of character. He would enjoy proving him wrong. “So what’s next for me?” he asked.  
“We get you squared away at our compound in the palace then it’s time to join up for real. But first, I’d like another glass for the road. Barmaid!”   
“Yes,” thought Alistair, “I’ll enjoy proving him wrong indeed,” and ordered another mug.  
*****  
The next morning Alistair awoke to find Duncan smiling down at him. His head felt like it was going to explode and he was sure anything he tried to eat wouldn’t stay down. He closed his eyes and tried to remember where he was. The palace. The Grey Wardens. Right? He opened his eyes again and Duncan was still there. “So I really didn’t dream all of this?” he asked.  
Duncan laughed at his bewilderment. Clearly the lad had had too much to drink last evening. “No, son. It’s real. Do you remember anything from last night?”  
“Let’s see, there was ale, and more ale. And a girl?” he suddenly got very worried. What had happened last night?  
Duncan suppressed the urge to laugh again and looked at Alistair. He was going to have teach the man more than just how to fight darkspawn. He would need some lessons about life too. “That was Marta, a barmaid at the Blue Griffon. It seems the two of you hit it off last night. You’re lucky; she tends to be very choosy.”  
Alistair slowly sat up and put his head in his hands, moaning as he did so. His stomach turned around about three times in the process. “I didn’t….you know….with her… did I?” he stammered, trying to find the right words.  
Duncan smiled, “No, but she spent a lot of time on your lap as I recall. It is hard to remember as I had my own girl to worry about at the time. We had a lot to celebrate.”  
Visions of black hair and amber eyes assailed Alistair’s senses. Yes, he thought, he had had a good time. He smiled.   
“How’s your stomach? asked Duncan.  
Alistair shifted on the cot, moaning as he moved. “It’s been better,” he said. “What was that we drank? Ale?”  
“It’s a special brew made for the Grey Wardens from the finest grains. It’s got a kick.”  
“So I see. Do you have any mint tea around?” Alistair asked, nauseously.  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Duncan told him, smiling again, “Get dressed. The splitmail will be fine; bring your sword and shield. After breakfast, we’re going to see what you can do.” With that said, Duncan left the room.  
Alistair looked around at his new quarters. He was pleased to see he had a room to himself. His bed was more than just a cot and seemed to have enough room for two people. There was a desk in the corner, an armoire, and a dresser. A chest stood at the foot of the bed and a thick carpet covered the cold stone floor. His personal effects were sitting on the floor, next to the wall.  
He slowly rose from the bed, allowing himself some time to adjust and for the dizziness to fade. He bent down and picked up his armor and set it on the bed, stopping long enough to let a wave of nausea pass. He made a mental vow not to drink so much ever again then smiled at himself knowing he’d never keep it. He got dressed.  
Breakfast sounded like a bad idea that morning so he was tempted to skip it but Duncan was ready with a healing draught. Alistair sniffed it warily, and then downed it in one gulp. He began to feel better almost instantly and became suspicious of the mixture. Duncan assured him there was no worry; it was just herbal and would do the trick. Soon he was able to eat some bread and a little fruit. It stayed down.   
The morning was spent in the lists where he impressed the other wardens with his shield prowess. A tall blond warden named Dalton with a long scar on his cheek suggested he look for another sword. With a shorter than average reach, he was never going to hit anything so a longer sword was needed and his Templar issued blade would never be sufficient. “Something wicked looking,” he suggested and hurried off to the armory.   
Dalton returned a few minutes later with two swords and an axe in hand. One was a saw sword that looked just like its name, and jagged teeth ran down both sides of the blade. This would cut a jagged wound when used on an enemy, causing more than average blood loss.   
The other sword had a hilt shaped more like the handle on a table knife and was nearly a foot longer than his Templar blade. It had a standard sword edge but had a protrusion sticking out near the end of the blade on the underneath side. Dalton explained that the protrusion would cause more damage when stabbing an enemy. It was lighter than his Templar issue so Alistair chose it.   
Dalton handed him the axe and told him that it would be a suitable “back-up” weapon. “Carry it in your belt, son. You can never be armed well enough.” Alistair was convinced the man knew what he talking about as the scar he carried seemed proof enough. Anyone who could survive that, he thought, knows his stuff and he added the axe to his weapons arsenal.  
At the end of the morning Alistair found he was not only well armed but an accepted member of the Wardens. He found much about them disgusting, Ser Ector had been right about that, but he was impressed at how well they worked together and their respect for each other. These were men who were good at their work, knew it and took pride in that fact. They were just what he thought an order of warriors should be.   
After lunch, Alistair was allowed some personal time to square away his gear in his room and take a stroll around the compound. His guide was a warden with an Orlesian accent name Riordan. He showed Alistair the grounds and mapped out the areas of the palace where they were permitted and where they weren’t. Alistair was surprised to find that there few places the wardens were not allowed. “The King has great respect for our order so we are allowed more freedom than, say, the guards, but we don’t want to wear out our welcome too fast so we stay close to home.” Alistair was relieved to hear that as he was hoping he’d be able to avoid Cailan. The warden compound, while accessible from the palace proper, also had a separate entrance that led to the street so he would be able to come and go with ease.  
The subject of his brother’s close proximity had begun to wear on him as the days passed. He had not seen Cailan and so far no one had mentioned that he “looked like the king.” That had been a problem occasionally growing up in the Abbey. Someone who had seen Maric or Cailan up close would remark that Alistair resembled one or the other. This occasionally elicited much comment and Alistair would use his humor to deflect the comments and change the subject. He had never thought that meeting his brother would be a possibility and now it was. It was time to tell Duncan as he needed to be aware of the situation and its possible implications.  
So it was that after supper one night about a week after his arrival, Alistair asked to speak to Duncan privately in his room. “I have something I think you need to know, Duncan,” he started, “It’s about who I am.”  
Duncan’s eyebrows rose at this. He hadn’t expected the lad to tell him up front. “What is it, Alistair?”  
“I….well…it’s just…I’m not just a Chantry orphan who was sent to the Templars. Although part of that is true,” he continued, “I came from Redcliffe, and I am a bastard but it’s not that I am a bastard it’s whose bastard I am.” He was finding it difficult to explain as it was the first time he ever had told anyone. “My father….was King Maric.”  
The older warden’s face remained impassive at this confession. Clearly Alistair had kept his secret well and he was sure he was the first one he had ever told. Duncan felt honored that the lad would make him the first. “Why tell me now?” he asked.  
“Our proximity to the palace and the King might make for some…interesting episodes. I wanted you to be aware. I should have told you before. I will understand if you decide I am too much of a risk to you to remain.”  
If Duncan had any doubts as to the depth of Alistair’s character, those doubts had disappeared. Here was a man who thought of others, not himself, an individual of great worth, a prince indeed. He spoke, “Alistair, we have men here who are murders, cutthroats, thieves, and blood mages, a prince, even a bastard, is always welcome. I would be most pleased to have you as a Warden in my charge.”  
Alistair was humbled at Duncan’s acceptance. He held out his hand and Duncan took it, “I am honored,” Alistair said, his voice husky with emotion, “I will not disappoint you.” And he never did.  
*****  
The next night Alistair was told to make himself presentable and report to the common room after dark wearing his armor but not his weapons. Alistair was curious as to why no weapons but did as he was told, taking time to polish and clean the splitmail to a shine.   
He arrived at the common room at the appointed time to find four people he did not know waiting. One was obviously a Warden and a mage, as he was wearing the mage’s equivalent to Warden armor. The others seemed to be recruits like him although he had not met them before.   
Duncan was there also and explained that these were recruits who had been accepted into the Warden ranks just as he had and that they were all to go through the Joining together and become Grey Wardens that night. He apologized to Alistair for not giving him advanced warning to prepare himself but the others had arrived early and needed to return to their base as soon as possible. Duncan was dressed in his formal Grey Warden armor with the griffon emblem on it just as the mage’s.   
The recruits were led into a chamber behind a hidden door that Alistair had not known was there. The other Wardens were standing in a circle around an ornate table that had an even more ornate chalice sitting on it. They were instructed by Duncan to form a smaller circle around the table and the ritual began.  
Duncan began by saying, “We gather together to welcome our new brothers into the fold, just as Grey Wardens have done for a thousand years. We celebrate your addition to our ranks this night. Just as those brothers and sisters did at that first Joining so long ago, and as we did at each of our Joinings, so shall you drink of darkspawn blood and master the taint.”  
At this last, Alistair’s eyebrows rose and he looked at his fellow recruits. There were looks of horror and disgust on one or another’s face, and he was sure he had gone pale, but he kept his composure and stood still, waiting for the next.   
Duncan continued, “And so we speak the words that have been spoken since the beginning. Riordan would you?”  
Riordan stepped forward and recited the words of Joining that were to remain with Alistair for the rest of his life:   
“Join us, brothers. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."  
Duncan walked to the table and picked up the chalice then turned and faced the first recruit, a middle-aged man with a scar that encircled his neck and handed it to him. The man hesitated but took the chalice, raising it to his lips. He took a drink and Duncan took the chalice from him. All at once the man raised his hands to his throat and began to gasp for breath, his eyes glazing over white. One of the Wardens came forward at Duncan’s motion and stood behind the man and eased him to the ground as he began to spasm and shake violently. Alistair had never seen anything like it and took a step backward in fear. Duncan looked at the Warden and nodded and the man stepped back into the ranks.  
Duncan moved to the next man and the process was the same. The young elven recruit drank from the chalice and began to suffer the same symptoms as the first man. He was eased to the ground by another Warden and pronounced whole by Duncan.  
The third man was standing next to Alistair. He took the chalice just as the others and drank but it did not result in the expected reaction. The man gasped and clutched his throat, but began to scream in agony as the taint began to claim him quickly. He dropped to his knees, screaming and Duncan motioned for two Wardens to come forward. One pulled out his dagger and placed it at the man’s neck, slicing clean through. Duncan looked at the man dying before him and said sadly, “Forgive us, brother. There will be no pain now.” The two Wardens picked the man’s body up and carried him from the room.  
Duncan turned next to Alistair who had gone into shock over what he had just witnessed. Duncan placed the chalice in Alistair’s hands and bid him to drink, whispering, “You are ready. You are strong,” Alistair’s hands shook as he raised the chalice to his lips and drank quickly. Duncan took the chalice from him.  
Alistair soon faced what he could only describe as a “waking nightmare.” He saw evil creatures swarming and worshipping a dragon surrounded by fire. Rivers of black blood ran everywhere and there were people being tortured by strange creatures. He saw himself standing in the midst of all this chaos, feeling the exquisite pain and its sensuality. He found himself taking part in the suffering, overjoyed at the sensation of hurting his victims. He was both terrified and fascinated, gleaning pain and pleasure from the tortures and rape. Over it all, he heard the whispers of the Archdemon, calling to him, offering him whatever he desired. It was unlike anything he would ever experience.  
Time passed, days or minutes, he couldn’t tell but he opened his eyes and found himself lying on his bed in his room. It was still dark outside and someone had removed his armor and he was dressed only in his small clothes. Bread, meat and some water were sitting on the desk along with an amulet in the shaped of the Grey Warden coat of arms. He picked up the amulet and turned it around in his palm, noticing the tiny window set into the back. He looked closer and saw liquid through the glass, swirling and churning. Visions came to his head of demons and fire, blood and torture, and he dropped the amulet onto the table as if it were on fire.   
What had happened to him? Yesterday he was a happy recruit preparing to join an ancient and respected order of warriors, honored they had chosen him. Today he was something else, unsure of who or even what he was. Was he a man or a monster? A demon who derived satisfaction from the pain and suffering of others?   
Alistair sat down on the bed, his head in his hands as the tears began to fall uncontrollably. He heard the door open and someone entering but couldn’t look up, he was so broken and ashamed. In a moment, he felt strong arms around him, protecting and comforting him, shielding him from the madness and the pain. He sobbed harder only to hear Duncan say, “We are who we are because we are strong. You are strong, and we are stronger with you. We are here for you.”  
*****  
The next day Alistair began to learn just what it takes to fight darkspawn. He learned the different types and their preferred methods of attack. It seemed that individual darkspawn were incapable of making decisions themselves and were controlled by more evolved and advanced creatures called Alphas who were also stronger fighters. Eliminate one these and the rest will fall easily, explained Duncan. Alistair was also surprised to discover that the Grey Wardens did not care how darkspawn were eliminated, only that they were. To this end, he learned that any and all types of warfare and combat were allowed, even blood magic.  
There were also different levels of darkspawn sorcerers to contend with. They used the standard damager spells but were capable of much destruction and had larger mana pools than the typical mage. This was where Alistair came in; he was the one with the power to negate their magical effects and the others could then move in for the kill. Duncan insisted that one of the other Wardens always be at Alistair’s side for protection so as to insure they would always be ready for magical attacks which he explained were becoming more and more frequent.  
Then there were the indoctrination sessions. Alistair learned the history of the Wardens and how they had begun. He was fascinated by the stories Duncan and some of the others told and began to write them down in hopes of compiling them into a book or archive. Duncan smiled at Alistair’s enthusiasm, pleased that he had found something he enjoyed to occupy him and take his mind from the nightmares that plagued him every night. He had been broken by his experience during the Joining and only time would heal him.  
During this time, Alistair learned another of the dark secrets about the Wardens. Duncan explained what was known about the effects of the taint on their bodies. The taint was, he said, a death sentence; eventually his body wouldn’t be able to handle it. Then he had three choices, let the taint take him and die the horrible death associated with it, go to the Deep Roads and fight the last fight, dying as a warrior, or, he could end it all himself.   
“How long do I have?” he asked, stunned.  
“About thirty years,” was the answer.  
Alistair was angry. He was only twenty-two and Duncan was telling him he would, at best, live to be fifty-two? He picked up his chair and threw it at the wall, shattering it.   
Duncan watched this display as he had had to so many times before. Somehow, this telling of that piece of information hurt more. He placed his hand on Alistair’s shoulder, “There are a lot of things you can accomplish in thirty years, son. I know.”  
Alistair turned toward this man who was his commander and was fast becoming his friend. Doubt was flickering in his eyes just as hope flickered in Duncan’s. “It won’t be long enough,” he said.  
“Then remember this, it’s not how long you live your life, but how you live it. Great things will come your way Alistair, I see it. There is time.”  
Alistair nodded and hoped Duncan was right. Being a Warden was a lot harder than it looked.  
Perhaps the most annoying and yet, beneficial, part of being a Warden was the physical effects. Alistair learned that these could be both prevalent and strong. Unfortunately, none of his fellow Wardens would comment on this part of his experience or their own. He asked Duncan about it and all he got was, “You’ll see.” From this he gathered it was an unpleasant topic, best avoided.  
So far he had noticed an overall feeling of good health. He had never felt so “good.” During daily training, he could run faster and for longer periods, fight harder and longer, and there was a noticeable increase in his strength. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he may have even grown taller. Duncan assured him this was all normal so he invested in some better-fitting clothes.  
At mealtimes, he was ravenous, eating everything in sight to which one of the Wardens commented, “Get your hands away from him, boys! He’s liable to eat it!” Alistair looked up at this, only to have the entire room burst into laughter, as his face was covered in gravy and he had been eating with both hands, having given up his spoon. He turned red and laughed, then asked the cook for seconds, eliciting more laughter.  
Once or twice a week, the group would journey down the road to the Blue Griffin for drinks and fun. Gambling, music, and girls seemed to be the main entertainment there but it was a clean place and the ale was good. Alistair learned to avoid the house “special” ale, remembering the last time he had imbibed so he stuck with the regular, which was enough.  
Marta was always there, ready for a kiss or a smack on the bottom, but she only had eyes for Alistair. He enjoyed her attention and was not only the recipient of more than a few kisses from her, he had given many back.   
One night a few weeks after the Joining, the others were enjoying Marta’s quick wit, when a Warden called Stephan leaned in to Alistair and said,” She wants you, boy. Take her upstairs and let her banish the demons.”  
“What do you mean?” he asked.  
“Well now, I thought Duncan would have told you something about that. Didn’t you know there was only one way to banish those darkspawn dreams?”   
Alistair was hesitantly curious and asked, “How?”  
“You find yourself a woman and you use her till you’re spent, lad. That’s the only way to banish the ‘spawn,” to which Stephan laughed loud and hard.  
Now Alistair had to admit that it wasn’t a new thought to him, enjoying some alone time with Marta or any girl. Since Kyanna, those feelings had become more frequent and sometimes difficult to control. He had often sat at table when he was an apprentice listening to the older recruits talking about their romantic conquests, often with detailed descriptions. And he knew he wasn’t the only one who made trips to the outhouse for reasons other than the usual bodily functions. He had just never gotten up the courage to do anything about it.  
Stephan called Marta over to the table and was regaling her with tales of his exploits, trying to impress her with his prowess. Marta wasn’t buying into any of it and kept looking at Alistair for help, her eyes pleading. He caught her eye, nodded, then reached around Stephan, took her hand, pulled her around him and into his lap. He took her face in one hand, and planted a kiss right on her lips. Stephan was amazed at Alistair’s determination. “Take her upstairs, lad! You’ve earned it!” he hollered and was soon joined by all the other Wardens. Alistair looked at Marta, set her down, and led her up the stairs where she pulled him into her room and shut the door.  
He stood there, looking at her for what seemed like hours, then she slowly walked over to him and smiled. Looking up at him, she placed her hands on his chest and said, “It would be nice.” Alistair smiled back and leaned in to kiss her, letting her feel his desire. Marta slowly brought her hands up to his neck and clung to him has they deepened the kiss. When their lips broke she took his hand and led him to the bed. They sat down and he took her in his arms once again, kissing her deeply.   
Suddenly visions of the nightmares he had had at the Joining assailed him. His heart began to pound and he began to sweat, pushing her away and jumping off the bed. Marta became frightened, seeing his distress, “Alistair?” she cried, “What is it?”  
“I…can’t. I’m…sorry, but I can’t,” he sobbed.  
Marta rose and slowly walked to him as he stood with his hands over his face. She gently reached up and pulled them down and held them. “Shhhh,” she cooed, “It is all right, you don’t have to.”  
Alistair looked into her dark eyes and saw their truth. He had nothing to prove with her and she didn’t care. He took her hand and placed a kiss on it, causing her to smile sweetly at him. He placed her hands around her neck and held her for the longest time drawing on her strength. When he finally pulled back, he told her the truth, “I do want to, Marta, more than you know. The time…it’s just not time. You understand, don’t you?”  
“I understand, Alistair. It really is all right.” She smiled, “Shall we go back downstairs?”  
Alistair thought of the implications of returning so quickly from her room. “Could we just stay here for a while and talk? I…don’t want them to think we didn’t…” His eyes were pleading.  
Marta laughed and nodded. “We could stay here and talk for a while if you want. Would you like a glass of wine?”  
They talked for over an hour about their homes, their lives and anything else that came up. She was an orphan too and worked at her uncle’s tavern to earn her way. She had schooling and loved to read as he did. She told him she refused to work as a prostitute even though the money was good as she felt it demeaning. Alistair was the first man she’d ever asked to her room.  
He was flattered by her admission and told her he was honored she’d chosen him. Perhaps sometime they would, he said, and she smiled. Their time was up so they readied themselves to go downstairs.  
“Did you have a good time?” she joked.  
Alistair laughed out loud, “Best I ever had,” he said, “Really.” Marta stepped up and kissed him and he put his arms around her. “Time to go,” he said and she nodded.  
Later that night when Marta went to bed after the tavern had closed, she was surprised to find a small bag on the table next to the bed. She opened it up and found it contained twenty sovereigns, a treasure. She smiled, turning the wheel.


	12. Destiny Has Green Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the life of Alistair from his birth to the time he meets the Warden at Ostagar.

Destiny Has Green Eyes  
“Another round boys?” asked Grigor.  
The Warden crowd cheered as the barmaids rushed to fill their glasses. Things had been a little slow lately so they’d spent plenty of time getting to know the new barmaids and finding new ways to waste their time and money at the Blue Griffin.  
Alistair sat at the end of the table with Marta on his lap. They’d been spending a lot of time together over the last four months but things had not progressed much past that first night together. They enjoyed each other’s company and saw each other frequently but their relationship never went any farther that it already had.  
After a particularly bad joke involving a chantry brother and a lewd woman, Alistair looked up at Marta’s face. She had a faraway look that reminded him of the times he would dream of his future while lying in the hay at the Redcliffe stables or his bunk at the Abbey. She was somewhere else right then.  
He watched her day dream and wondered what she was thinking. She had become a part of him over time, like his hand or his nose. He took for granted the fact that he would see her in the evenings at the tavern or on Sunday afternoons while they walked through the palace gardens. When he entered the tavern, she would come over to greet him and they would kiss, then he’d pull her over to a table and plop her on his knee. Marta would put her arms around his neck and they’d listen to the talk. Sometimes sharing a thought or a drink, but never talking themselves. They were, in a sense, immobile, stuck with no forward momentum or backward either. She was always just….there.  
That night he considered where they were headed. He didn’t doubt that she’d make a fine wife. She was pious and good, a hard worker with a compassionate streak like his own, the female edition of himself in many ways. Too much alike. What to do?  
“You’re far away now, aren’t you,” he said to her.  
“What…oh! Alistair! I’m sorry. Did you say something?” she asked surprised.  
“I was remarking that you looked so far away just then. Is everything okay?”  
Marta turned in his lap to face him better. She looked into his eyes then slowly moved in and kissed him. He reached around her with his arms and held her tight.  
Stephon, as usual, noticed. “Hey there, boy! You should be taking that upstairs, not down here for all of us to see. Get on with you!” he exclaimed, and laughed with all the rest.  
Marta leaned in and whispered in Alistair’s ear, “I would like to go upstairs, if you want.”  
Alistair smiled and nodded, set her on the floor, and led her upstairs. They entered her room and he shot the bolt on the door then turned to her. Her long dark hair had begun to slip from the confines of her loose braid; she walked over to the table and lit a candle. The dim firelight played on her face, accentuating the blush on her cheeks and the glow of her dark eyes. He took a deep breath; she was so lovely at that moment he couldn’t breathe.  
Marta slowly walked forward and put her arms around him; he encircled her with his and took her mouth for a kiss. She kissed him back, both of them throwing all the passion and feeling they had into that one joining. It wasn’t enough and they both knew it. They needed something else.  
As the kiss ended, Marta looked up at Alistair, hope in her eyes. He tried to think of something to say to her, something hopeful, but nothing was there. They had no hope. She slowly backed out of his embrace to stand before him, her eyes never leaving his.  
“My sister wants me to come to Gwaren and live with her. She’s married now and expecting a baby. I think she needs me,” she said, lowering her head sadly.  
Alistair looked down at her. She had moved forward, he followed. “When would you leave?”  
“On the next ship. She sent me the passage.”  
“I will miss you. I really will,” he said quietly. He took his hand and put it on her cheek; she leaned in to it, looking back up at him.  
Her eyes fill with hope again, “Will you really?” she questioned.  
“Really,” he answered, smiling.  
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his purse. He had thirty sovereigns and some silver. He took her hand and placed the purse in it. “I want you to take this. It will help get you there,” he said and closed her fingers around the little bag.  
She looked at the bag in her hand and smiled. “Thank you,” she cried, tears falling down her face, “Oh, Alistair, thank you!” She flew at him, her arms flying around his neck.  
They stood there for what seemed an eternity, holding each other, and the world stopped for everything and everyone but them. Finally, he pulled back and took her face in his hands. “Thank you,” he said.  
“I love you,” she said to him.  
He smiled again and rested his forehead against hers. “I love you too,” he said.  
*****  
Two weeks later came the summons they had been waiting for. The darkspawn were on the move.  
Duncan had left for the Kocari Wilds with three others to investigate reports of large groups of darkspawn moving through the area. He had returned that morning and had immediately requested an audience with the King. Alistair was worried.  
“What does all this mean?” he asked Dalton.  
“Looks like we’re going to war, son. Best polish up that sword and axe.” Dalton laughed. “You’re going to need it now.” Alistair decided to take it to heart and did just that.  
Three hours later, Duncan returned from the King with new orders. The army was to march to the southern Wilds, to the abandoned fortress at Ostagar. There they would prepare to meet the darkspawn threat before it became too large. Messengers had been sent out to the nobility, requesting troops be sent. Even the Templars and mages had been called to arms.  
Alistair had always known this time would come. He was a warrior and had been trained for such an eventuality. Being trained and being ready were two very different things, as he was about to discover.  
A few days later he found himself traveling southward towards the Kocari Wilds. The road was good and they made good time, choosing to camp out instead of staying in the roadside inns. Duncan was adamant that the men be ready and had restricted their social activity outside of the group to insure they were. Alistair didn’t mind and used his free time for extra practice on the Talents in preparation for meeting any darkspawn mages. All the men took turns sparring with him, pulling all the tricks they knew, preparing him for battle. He was beginning to feel ready.  
Four days into the journey they entered the Wilds. Here the road quickly became nothing more than a dirt path heading south and the air became thick and cold. Alistair shivered and pulled on his heavy cloak, grateful for Marta’s gift. She had presented it to him on Feast Day and had made it herself. It was two layers of heavy black wool with an oiled layer sewn between and had kept him warm and dry on the road for the entire journey. He fingered the wool and smiled, remembering her.  
The path began to darken the further south they travelled. Rain fell occasionally, making going slow for the group but Alistair wasn’t worried; he was ready.  
Ahead of the party he saw what appeared to be glowing eyes, and darkened shapes moving across the path. Dalton had been assigned to protect him to ensure that he would be able to use the Talents so he moved in closer to Alistair. It was then that he felt it; a tingling sensation all over his body, and the whispers, creeping into his mind. He concentrated and soon could pick out the direction the feelings came from, straight ahead.  
Silently the men began to split up into groups of three or four and circle the beasts. Alistair drew his sword slowly and stayed to the center with Dalton and Duncan. “This is where you wet your pants, boy,” whispered Dalton. They had begun to close in on the creatures when they were attacked from both sides. Darkspawn came at them with swords, axes, maces and bows. The Wardens gathered into groups, their backs to each other and began to fight.  
Alistair had never been in any battle, much less one with darkspawn. He noticed they fought as most other warriors with one exception; they were just as likely to hurt you when they were injured as when they were whole. Minor wounds meant nothing and rarely slowed them. Killing was the only way to stop them.  
He fought for his life, striking, and stabbing so many of the enemy he couldn’t begin to count. When a Genlock sorcerer appeared in the distance, Duncan yelled, “Alistair!” and pointed towards the creature. Alistair cast Cleanse Area to disable the sorcerer, who was finished off by two Wardens.  
Alistair turned to continue the fight only to find himself face to face with a Hurlock, an alpha. The creature was carrying a wicked looking heavy axe with barbs around the edge. It raised the axe and swung a stroke aimed right for him. Alistair raised his shield and took the impact, feeling his arm go numb. As the Hurlock wound around for another swing, Alistair slashed at the creature’s middle with his sword, drawing blood. The Hurlock staggered backward but continued to raise its axe for the stroke. It hit Alistair’s shield dead center, without the force it had before, but enough to force him against a nearby tree.  
Pinned against the tree, he knew he had to think fast. He lashed out with his shield three times to occupy the creature then stabbed his sword into the Hurlock’s chest, watching blood spurt from the hole. The Hurlock made one last effort to swing his axe but fell forward into Alistair, knocking them both to the ground. Alistair shoved the creature off then drew his dagger and plunged it into its eye feeling it finally go still.  
Fortunately no one had been badly wounded but he had suffered several cuts that needed dressing. The darkspawn blood caused the cuts to sting so they had to be washed out with alcohol or water. Duncan appeared at this side and clapped his hand on Alistair’s shoulder, clearly relieved to see he was still alive. “Well done, son,” he said, causing Alistair to ask, “Is it like this all the time?” to which Duncan replied, “Sometimes,” and smiled.  
The next day they arrived at Ostagar, a desolate and lonely place, built by the Tevinter Imperium to protect the area from the barbarian tribes. It was old and reeked of history and Alistair was fascinated.  
The Grey Wardens were allowed to set up camp near the royal enclosure per the King’s request and he was often seen at their fire in the evening, drinking and sharing stories. This proved too much for Alistair so he often had to take his meals elsewhere to avoid seeing his brother. He hadn’t come to terms with his royal or lack of royal status yet and avoiding Cailan seemed the best way to deal with it at the moment. When one of his fellow Wardens had to find him, he was often found sitting in some corner nook reading or sitting at a fire listening to stories.  
A week after their arrival was the first battle. Scouts had reported a large horde massing to the south and west of Ostagar. The King sent out the warning and the troops readied themselves. Swords were sharpened and arrows fletched. Shields were polished and armor oiled. Soon the army had arranged itself on the plain below the fortress. The ballistas were mounted on the causeway bridge high above the valley to rain fire and arrows down on the horde.  
On the morning of the battle, Alistair was dressed in his splitmail and armed with his sword and shield, an axe in his belt, his father’s dagger, and one or two more daggers hidden in his boot and stuck in his shield. Dalton had been concerned about his battle with the Hurlock and decided that Alistair needed more back up weapons. So he procured two more daggers and fashioned a clever, hidden sheath for Alistair’s shield. Alistair didn’t want to tell the man that he didn’t think the extra precautions would help, but he appreciated the thought. The Wardens had become like a family to him and he was honored they cared so much.  
With little enough time before the start of the battle, he took some time for himself. Finding a secluded space, he opened his small belt pack and pulled out a letter from Marta. It had arrived just as he left Denerim and he hadn’t had a chance to read it thoroughly.  
She had arrived safely though the sea was rough. She was happy there. Her sister was well and should be making her an aunt in a month or two. He smiled at the thought of Marta and a baby. Maker, see she has them, lots of them, he thought. She told him she was wearing his amulet and would never take it off. For Feast Day, he had given her the amulet of Andraste that he had received at his knighthood ceremony. Marta had cried and said he would need it himself and he said no, it should be hers and kissed her.  
She had heard of the big battle to be fought in the south and prayed for his safe return. She would be writing again soon she said. It was signed “love.” He smiled. “Maker, keep her safe,” he thought, “Give her what I could not.” He put the letter back in the pouch and went to meet Duncan.  
He found his commander on the causeway looking down on the battle to come. Alistair greeted him.  
“So there you are. I thought I’d have to send Grigor to find you,” Duncan remarked. “I have a job for you. Something special.”  
“What is it?” he asked curiously.  
Duncan nodded and continued, “The King is concerned some of outer posts will not be able to receive orders quickly enough to respond in a timely fashion. He needs a man who can act as a go-between and signal these orders to those posts as soon as they are given. You are to be that man.”  
“I won’t be fighting?” Alistair asked.  
“Not this time. This is an important job for you, Alistair. We need someone who is dependable and trained well. That man is you,” said Duncan.  
“Very well, Duncan. If you say so.” He was disappointed but believed Duncan knew best. He hurried to the command tent.  
Alistair reported to the captain in charge and was relieved to find Cailan was not there. He had taken the extra precaution of donning his helmet before entering the tent in an attempt to dissuade any unwelcome looks of recognition that might come his way. So far the tactic had been successful. A few minutes later, the battle began and the first messages began coming in and going out.  
He was kept busy for hours going back and forth from the tent to the causeway where the signal fires and standard bearers were stationed. So much information was coming in and going out that Alistair had to take a turn at the standards himself, relieving a man who had nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Through it all he could hear the whispers of the Archdemon calling to him. He worked faster.  
Hours later the battle was finished, the darkspawn dead or fleeing, and Alistair personally signaled the order to stand down and the army began returning to camp. He returned to the command tent to take his leave, and was dismissed by the captain with a hearty thanks and a promise that he would mention his contribution to the king himself. Alistair thanked the man but told him that wouldn’t be necessary.  
“Of course, it’s necessary, young ser. You may have single-handedly kept the battle going today. What is your name?” asked the captain.  
Alistair thought fast, “Alain, Ser. Alain of the Grey Wardens,” he answered, saluted and departed.  
He quickened his pace as he exited the tent, eager to get back to camp. As he left, he found himself running smack into another man who was entering the tent at the same time. The man was tall, wearing heavy plate armor, and covered in black gore, using a towel to wipe his face and hair. Both men backed up and the tall man spoke first, “Pardon me, ser, I did not see you there. It was my fault.”  
Alistair shrugged and looked up at the face of Teryn Loghain, general of the armies. “Forgive me, my lord. In my haste, I did not watch where I was going,” he said.  
Loghain looked at this young man carefully and his eyebrows suddenly rose. He hesitated slightly before accepting Alistair’s apology and taking his leave. Alistair felt the eyes on his back as he exited the tent and knew the reason…Teryn Loghain knew who he was.  
He arrived at camp and found that everyone was well and whole. There were some minor injuries but they were being tended to by a mage healer who had been sent by Cailan to tend his favorite troops. Dinner was quickly prepared and Alistair was regaled with stories of heroism well into the night. He felt good about his first battle but wished it had gone more gloriously. But he was assured by his comrades that there would be more chances as the” ‘spawn weren’t done with us yet.” He hoped it was true.  
****  
A few days later, another battle was underway. Alistair had not been allowed to take part in this one either having been assigned to ensure the delivery of supplies to the outpost commands. He did his job thoroughly and well, giving the pseudonym, Alain, when asked who he was. He was concerned that his identity remain unknown and wished to avoid any unpleasantness that might be associated with it. The unease he’d felt at Teryn Loghain’s look had stayed with him.  
As before, he returned to camp and was regaled with the stories of the Wardens heroism, but found little joy in them this time. His friends were unscathed as a whole and he found comfort only in that.  
Over the next two weeks two more battles raged and Alistair was kept out of both. He took his turn at messaging again at the request of the captain in charge and was assigned as a guard at the medical tent. His wartime experience was looking colorful but in the wrong way. He decided to talk to Duncan.  
He found Duncan as he exited the royal enclosure heading back to camp. “Why am I being kept out of battles?” he asked.  
I wasn’t aware you were,” Duncan answered.  
Alistair was tired of the vagueness, “You know what I mean. Messenger, delivery boy and guard are not the positions I was trained for. I want to fight. With all of you,” he said.  
“All the assignments you have had, Alistair, have been crucial to the battle plan. Do you think we would have gotten the orders to charge the left side soon enough for it to do any good if it hadn’t been you who had sent the signal? You have to be patient. You have shown you can fight the darkspawn as a Warden and we are proud of you but these jobs are important too,” Duncan replied.  
Alistair was still unconvinced, “I just feel I’m not any better off than I was in the Abbey.”  
Duncan considered his words. “So that’s it,” he thought. He addressed the concern, “Alistair, you are not at the Abbey. You are a Grey Warden and as a Warden you are expected to do what you are assigned. Now, I am leaving today for the Circle of Magi on the King’s business and we talk of this when I return.”  
So, for the next week, Alistair continued with his regular duties, watch, messenger, guard duty, and cook, although the last was short lived as even a palette as undiscerning as Grigor wouldn’t eat his cooking so he was mercifully spared that duty from then on.  
A few days later, Duncan sent two new recruits to them. One was a young knight from Redcliffe named Ser Jory. Alistair remembered him as one of the boys who had teased him in Brother Moriel’s class. Jory had been sent to Highever at age ten to foster and fortunately did not remember Alistair. He struck Alistair as too pious and seemed preoccupied with his pregnant wife who was ensconced in Highever Castle. He was in doubt as to the man’s suitability to be a Warden but kept his opinions to himself.  
The other was a man named Daveth who had come from the Wilds by way of the Denerim jail. He had cut Duncan’s purse in the market and Duncan had chased him down. The Guard had caught him first and would have hauled him off to prison if Duncan hadn’t conscripted him. He was a pleasant sort otherwise with a quick wit and blade so he fit in well enough. He also had quite the reputation as a ladies man which amused Alistair very much as he seemed to only strike out so far.  
The next day Duncan sent a message that he would be arriving with a new mage recruit named Isabeaux. She was highly skilled in the magical arts and would be a welcome addition, he added. Alistair hoped so. There were no women in the Ferelden Grey Wardens and one would make things interesting.  
Three days after Duncan’s note was received, he arrived at Ostagar with his new recruit. He was on his way to great the new arrival when he was stopped by the Revered Mother and asked to deliver a message to one of the senior mages. Alistair tried to find a way to get out of the favor, but Duncan had said they were all to get along so he agreed. “Tell the mage I want to see him,” she said.  
The mage in question had been hard to find. Alistair had looked long and hard for him, finally finding him in a ruined temple at the other side of the camp. He was found sitting in the temple meditating and Alistair had to wait for him to finish.  
“I am sorry, Ser mage, but the Revered Mother asked me to deliver a message to you. She desires your presence,” he informed the man.  
“What that woman wants and what I will do are not the same, young man,” berated the mage.  
Alistair had had enough of Ostagar, bad jobs, boredom and puffed up mages. “And here I was going to name my first child after you, ser,” he declared rudely,“ The grumpy one.”  
That elicited a string of insults and threats from the mage that seemed to go forever. After a minute or two of berating, Alistair glanced over the mage’s shoulder looking for an excuse to leave, when he saw a girl coming up the stairs into the temple. She was an elf, with reddish brown hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck; strands of hair slipping from it to frame her face. Her forehead was decorated with a tattoo, done in the Dalish style and she had green eyes the color of emeralds. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.  
The mage had realized that Alistair was no longer listening to anything he was telling him and said, “Enough! I’ll go see what the woman wants. Get out of my way fool!” and he stomped off leaving Alistair alone with the girl.  
Words failed him for a moment and after a struggle he finally said, "You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."  
The girl stopped for a moment and considered what she heard. Then she replied, “I agree completely?”  
Alistair seized the angle, “It’s like a party. We should all gather round and hold hands, that’d give the Darkspawn something to think about. Wait, do I know you? You wouldn’t happen to be another mage, would you?” It wasn’t looking good the more he talked.  
The girl looked him up and down some more, sizing him up, “Would that make your day worse? I am indeed a mage,” she answered.  
“Really? You don’t look like a mage. I mean…how interesting. I’m not going to get turned into a toad or anything like that, am I? It would ruin armor.” She suppressed a giggle at his discomfort but he continued, “Wait. I do know you. You are Duncan’s new recruit.”

She introduced herself and smiled, “Yes. I’m Isabeaux. You, I am hoping, are Alistair. “  
“Did Duncan mention me?” he said, surprised, “I hope it wasn’t anything bad. At any rate, I’m going to be helping you as you and the others prepare for the Joining. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. She watched, a small amount of worry crossing her face.  
"You know... it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?” he immediately decided he was beginning to lose his mind as well as his train of thought.  
Isabeaux continued to watch him with even greater interest, “You want more women in the Wardens, do you?” she replied coyly.  
Alistair stammered and tripped over his response, “It’s just that there aren’t any….at least…right here. I’m not a drooling lecher or anything…Please stop looking at me like that.”  
Isabeaux covered her mouth to hide a smile while Alistair searched for an out, "So, I'm curious: Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?"  
They continued chatting about Darkspawn, the battle, the Grey Wardens, and even Duncan. Alistair felt so comfortable with her, like he had always known her and was supposed to. He was unexpectedly reminded of something Aaron had said before he died so long ago,” “You are destined for greatness, son,” he said.  
“What do you mean?” asked Alistair.  
“You will find your destiny in the old place. Together you will fight the evil and create the new,” he said.  
“What old place, Aaron, I don’t understand.”  
“Where they fought before, lad. She will be there,” was his reply.  
He didn’t understand why he had suddenly thought of that conversation from back then. Eamon had said that Aaron had the gift of sight and sometimes “saw” things before they happened but Eamon hadn’t given it much concern. Only the Maker knew the future.  
Alistair looked at Isabeaux and knew it was time to get to business; they had a Joining to complete and a war to fight. "Anyhow, whenever you're ready let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started." He motioned her to follow.  
“I look forward to travelling with you, Alistair,” she said and smiled warmly.  
Alistair looked in her emerald eyes and saw hope and happiness. With her, he could do this, he thought.  
And the wheel kept turning.


End file.
